Winter Friends
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: The Old Days are gone and they're not coming back. Denmark has to accept it. Sweden has to acknowledge it. And Norway & Finland have to take advantage of it. It's the 19th Century: Norway's been given to Sweden; Finland's been taken by Russia; and Denmark is all alone. This story is about what the Nordics will have to do to survive (endure) the next 200 years—together and apart.
1. Part One

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **WINTER FRIENDS**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse my taking liberties with some character relationships and the chronology of historic events, as well as my personal—fictional—interpretation. (I really can't stress enough how much I've manipulated historic events to fit my purpose.) All countries will be called by their present-day names rather than their historic names to avoid confusion. In this story, Denmark and Norway call each other by their native-language names: _Danmark_ ( _Dan_ ) and _Norge_.

* * *

" _From the fury of the Northmen, Good Lord, deliver us._ "

 **PART ONE**

 **DENMARK**

 **SEPTEMBER 1812**

I told him not to do it. I _warned_ him not to invade Russia in September, but did he listen? No. Fucking Napoleon.

Fucking France.

I'm standing at the bow of my flagship, a fierce autumn wind tugging at my blood-red cloak. France says that too much red is gaudy, but what does France know? Fuck France. I like red. I'm wearing my armour, but it's still shiny; untarnished. I haven't participated in any hand-to-hand combat yet, which is a shame. I'm really good at hand-to-hand combat. Give me a sword and I'll give you a real show. Prussia and I used to spar (and fight) a lot in the days before guns. We were— _are—_ good, but that's not how battles are fought anymore. My navy is strong today, but there's something about crushing a rival's windpipe with my bare hands—God! I miss the Old Days! I think Norge does, too. I look sideways at him, my partner, standing at the bow of his ship, side-by-side with mine. His ship is a masterpiece of naval engineering, but it's old and weathered. So are his clothes. They're threadbare and sun-bleached; durable, but outdated. There's nothing fashionable or luxurious about Norge, no adornment except for a gold hairpin. (I gave it to him long ago as a wedding gift.) Norge is poor and it shows. The wealth he had acquired in the Old Days has long been lost, spent, stolen. It's why I've taken over the care of his colonies, because Norge can barely afford to feed himself now. But he never complains. He never protests or rebels (much) or petitions my monarchy for more. He carries on like he always has: quiet, stoic, mysterious, dignified. He has an incomparable survival instinct that I've always found desirable. He might lack the wealth and refinery of mainland Europe, but in my whole life I've never seen anything in the world more beautiful than Norge.

Norge's violet eyes are surveying the French Army. I turn to look, too.

Saying that Russia has defeated Napoleon's army is a huge understatement. Russia's harsh climate, that is. His strategy was brutal, cruel even, but necessary. I'd spotted it. Norge had spotted it. France had not spotted it. He had chased the Russian Army farther and farther north, all the way up to Moscow, too arrogant to consider Russia's retreat as a tactical strategy; too ignorant of winter. Norge and I had watched as France, our _ally_ , marched Napoleon's army too far to retreat from the blistering cold.

"It's only September," France had said, baffled.

"Winter comes early in the north," Norge told him. But did he listen? No.

 _Poor bastards_ , I think as I watch the French Army retreat. The soldiers are shivering from head-to-toe. Most of them have frostbite; some have even lost appendages to it. All of them are starving. None of them ride horses. The cavalry has sacrificed the beasts to the climate and starvation. They have no overcoats, no protection, no supplies, no food, and Russia is making sure they stay that way. France had arrived in Moscow only to find it burnt to the ground. The Russians had intentionally torched their own city— _reckless bastards_ —and then retreated deep into the interior, destroying fields and shelters, leaving the French with no protection from the oncoming winter. France had entered Russia with 500,000 troops; he's leaving it now with less than 100,000. And he's barely engaged Russia in combat. He had marched Napoleon's army across the continent, defeating friend and foe alike, anyone who dared to oppose him. He had even forced powerhouses like Prussia and Austria to their knees, but you can't make nature bow. France learnt that the hard way.

I told him not to do it.

I warned him not to do it.

But did he listen to me? No.

"There's a reason only north-borns fight winter battles," I say to Norge.

I don't expect a reply, and Norge doesn't give me one. He doesn't usually talk unnecessarily (not unless he's drunk), so I'm surprised when he says " _Dan_ " really quietly. "If Napoleon is defeated..."

I look at Norge, who's looking northward at Sweden's country. I hear the doubt in his voice. I see the fear in his beautiful eyes. I want to jump aboard his ship and pull him into my arms and envelope him in my protection, but I don't. I can't, not here. Here we're both leaders, both personifications of everything that our flags represent. It's our job to inspire hope and pride and strength in our people, not show fear or weakness. Here we have to behave like the great nations we are instead of the married couple I want to be. I can't lend my partner comfort to ease his fears, and it irks me. It's why I fucking hate military campaigns, now. It's the reason I haven't participated in one for so long.

The truth is, I'm tired of fighting other people's battles. I'm tired of taking sides and hoping the victor throws me his scraps when he's done. I just don't fucking care anymore. All I want to do is return home to the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway with my partner, hug my stepsons, eat something hearty and fattening, and then fall asleep in front of the crackling fire with Norge in my arms, satisfied and exhausted from making love to him. Let winter howl, I don't care. I've weathered a lot worse than this. As long as my family is secure, Europe can tear itself apart.

I smile at Norge, trying to convey my feelings; trying to hide my doubt and remind him that it doesn't matter who wins or loses this conflict, because we'll survive like we've always done. We'll be who we've always been. I smile, trying to remind him who we are together.

 _It's okay_ , I nod at him. _It's going to be okay. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to us. You don't have to be afraid_ , _Norge_. _I'm here._

But Norge doesn't smile back.

* * *

 **SWEDEN**

 **JUNE 1815**

 **CONGRESS OF VIENNA**

Did you want me that badly, France?"

I stop at the threshold. It's better not to intrude on a private exchange between England and France if it can be helped. As neither of them have noticed me yet, I decide not to interrupt. Instead I stand in the entrance, awaiting England. As commander-in-chief of the coalition that had finally defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, England is needed to decide the future of France. He'll be France's chief persecutor in the months to come. He knows it. And he loves it. _He's cruel_ , I think, but France and England have an intimate 's always been this way with them, and I don't care enough about either of them to get involved. I had thought, perhaps, that England had come down to the prison to discuss the disarmament of France with the defeated nation, but the hushed conversation between them does not seem to involve matters of governance.

"I like you on your knees," England purrs, smiling down at France. No, not smiling—grinning. "It suits you."

France doesn't reply.

"Tell me," England continues, unperturbed. He coils his index-finger teasingly around France's blonde curl as he speaks; France doesn't flinch. "Did you really think that pathetic blockade of yours would cripple me? Did you think you could conquer me if you isolated me from Europe? Oh, poppet." He laughs and leans in. "I _live_ in fucking isolation from you squabbling Continentals, and I fucking prefer it that way. Did you really think I wouldn't use Spain and Portugal to my advantage? Did you really think I wouldn't bleed them dry to save myself? Did you really think my colonies—my children—wouldn't provide for me?

"I suppose I have you to thank for America's little tantrum in North America?" he says, straightening. His ire is notable as he begins to circle France like a bird-of-prey. "It wasn't a bad tactic, I'll admit. I was even afraid I'd have to send re-enforcements to Canada to expel America's invasion. That was your hope, wasn't it? You wanted to distract me from the conflict here in Europe, but it failed. The Anglo-American War—no, the War of 1812, that's what the wee colonies are calling it. Cute, isn't it?" He chuckles and smiles—genuinely? "But I'm curious," he continues. "What _did_ you tell impulsive little America that provoked him to attack my Canada? How did you convince my darling _former-colony_ ," he spats, "to invade his own brother?"

"I told him," says France quietly; his voice is raw and thirsty, "that he needed to rescue Canada from _you_. If anyone is the champion of freedom and liberty, it's America. And you're such an easy antagonist, England. America is still drunk on his Independence. He thinks he knows what's best for everyone. He thinks he needs to save the whole world. I simply told him to start with his dear brother and save Canada from your tyranny."

England stops. He stiffens. He doesn't like the accusation that he might be a bad parent. He glares down at France, and says: "Do you really have the gall to call me a tyrant after what your Napoleon has done?"

France shakes his head. Not in denial or regret, but in reluctant defeat. "You— _everyone_ —has stolen from me. I was only taking back what should be mine."

"Well," says England coldly, matter-of-fact, "you failed. You and America both underestimated my Canada's strength. And his loyalty. You underestimated _me_ , France, which is something I warned you never to do. _France_ ," he repeats softly. He takes France's chin in his hand and raises it, almost tenderly, so they're staring at each other eye-to-eye, nearly lips-to-lips. The Englishman leans down, as if he's going to kiss France, but his words are cruel.

" _You lost_ ," he whispers maliciously. " _And I won._ "

France spits on him.

England licks it off and grins. His green eyes sparkle.

I finally decide to interrupt. I clear my throat loudly.

England's gaze swivels and pierces me and for a moment he looks furious, but he controls his expression and straightens as if he's only been talking to France. As if that's all he ever intended. His human—and geographic—body is not big, but a ferocity lives in those mad green eyes, which puts me on-guard even though he's my ally today. I wait for him to leave France's side and approach me. I look down at him. He looks up, unafraid.

"Yes, Sweden?" he asks.

"I fought beside you, England," I say. "I helped you win victory at Waterloo. I want what you promised me after the Battle of Leipzig."

England's contemplative pause is convincing enough for me to feel briefly jarred, cheated. In that moment, I don't trust him. (I never trust him. I wonder if anyone does?) Finally he nods at me.

"Yes, of course," he says, chipper. "Shall we?"

He doesn't wait for me to reply and he doesn't excuse himself, as is polite. He doesn't need to. He's in control today and he knows it.

He doesn't look back at France.

* * *

 **DENMARK**

 **14 JANUARY 1814**

 **KIEL**

Don't fuss," warns Prussia.

I _may_ reply nonverbally with a rude hand gesture, and he _may_ reciprocate. (He's one of my closest blood-relatives and, usually, we get along well, but he's never completely forgiven me for bullying Germany as a babe.)

I sit down heavily on a bare, un-cushioned bench in the chamber, growling in annoyance. The noise startles Austria, who casts a disgruntled look my way. Posh prick. It's satisfying, though. So is the wide berth that most of the congress attendees give me. Even though I represent the losing side of the war and am wearing iron manacles, Europe remains wary of me. It's my reputation. Good. I sit back, cross my arms, and kick my boots over the bench in front of me. I scan the chamber for Norge, but I don't see him. It makes me nervous not knowing where he is, especially since our surrender, but just then England enters the room and it grabs my attention. He's being followed by Sweden, like a prince and his bodyguard.

 _When did they become such good friends_?

I narrow my eyes into a glare I hope will discourage Sweden from making demands of us (or set him ablaze; I'm not picky). Sweden— _the bastard_ —completely ignores me.

 _I can't believe I ever called you brother_ , I think bitterly.

England steps up to the podium and begins giving an impassioned speech about tyranny, betrayal, treason, injustice. France this and France that, blah, blah, blah. France. France. France. God, I wish the two of them would just fuck (again) and get it over with (again). I stop listening—and I'm not the only one—until I hear:

"Norway."

My eyes snap open. I've missed something. Everyone is looking at me now, but I don't know why. Sweden is standing at the podium, staring at me expectantly. I blink, kick my legs down and sit straighter. I don't like the way he's looking at me, like he pities me. _Bastard._ I don't like the way anyone is looking at me, some in smug satisfaction, but most in sympathy. Hungary is looking at me like I deserve a fucking hug. But why? _Why_? _What have you done_ , _Sweden_?I feel anxious as I glance from face-to-face, trying to decipher what it is they want from me; trying to look nonchalant and not like my heart is pounding in my chest.

Impatiently, England says: "If there are no protests, then let the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway hereby be dissolved. Norway will legally become a lesser partner of Sweden, thereby—"

"WHAT?"

I leap up. I lose my fucking mind. I yell: "No! I protest! I fucking protest!"

England— _fucking bastard_ —ignores me. "If there are no objections from any of the _victorious_ powers," he emphasizes, "then let this business be completed. Bring in Norway."

" _No_!" I holler. "No, you can't do this! You can't! Norway belongs to me! He's my partner! It's been fucking sanctified! It's fucking legal! You can't just take him from me! Sweden, you bastard, _you_ _can't do this_!"

I try to lunge at Sweden, I want to tear him apart, but Prussia and Germany hold me back. I hate them. I lash out at them as I fight and growl and spit and curse, making a spectacle of myself as chains jangle and benches flip, but I don't care. My heart is pounding. I'm fucking panicking. I can't even think straight. I'm acting on impulse, on blind, beastly instinct. I barely know what I'm doing, but I know—I _know_ —I can't let them take Norge from me. I know I have to protect him from Sweden, from everyone. I have to put a stop to this.

" _Sweden_!" I snarl in challenge. "I'll fucking fight you!"

Sweden's voice is infuriatingly calm when he says: "You did, Denmark. And you lost. Norway needs someone who can protect him and provide for him. He needs someone who can take care of him. He needs strength, which I have. I can nurture his potential."

"So can I!" I argue.

"No, you can't. You've been married to Norway for centuries, and you've done nothing but tax him dry. While other nations have flourished in this modern era, you've let Norway succumb to poverty."

"No... that's not true..." I shake my head. "I never..."

"Norway used to be a great nation," says Sweden mercilessly, "then he married _you_."

" _Shut up_!" I yell, throwing myself recklessly at him. Prussia and Germany hold me back. It's a kindness. They know if they let me go I'll try to kill Sweden, and then what will happen to me? But I still hate them for it.

Then the door opens and Norge walks in and I freeze. I go completely still. Even though he's being ushered in by jailors; even though his wrists are manacled; even though his clothes are threadbare and his face is bruised, he looks regal, like he's proceeding an entourage. He's so fucking dignified, so beautiful. His pace is swift and graceful. He keeps his chin raised and his eyes hooded. He looks as characteristically expressionless as always, but I can see tension in his posture. I can see fear in his eyes, and it hurts me. He doesn't look at me as he passes, but he betrays acknowledgement in the way his lips tightened. So soft, those lips. He swallows. I can see that he's been stripped of all his symbols, all his power. Anything suggestive of our unified kingdom has been removed, even his hairpin. I wonder where it went. It's stupid, but I want that piece of gold jewelry back. I want it back for him. Norge stops in front of the podium and he doesn't look frightened. Not on the outside. He stares coldly up at England.

"Norway," he says authoritatively, "the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway has officially been dissolved."

I thought Norge would react, I really did. But he doesn't. Not obviously, anyway. He sucks in his breath and holds it for a minute, and I don't think anyone notices but me.

"The Kingdom of Norway has been ceded to Sweden," England continues. He sounds bored. "You are hereby ordered to wed Sweden and become the lesser partner of the Kingdom of Sweden and Norway. You will abide by Swedish law and live in Sweden's house. Do you understand these terms?"

Norge's voice is quiet, but sharp as ice. "Yes."

"Good." England waves his hand in absent dismissal. "Sweden, you have the support and permission of the congress to take Norway away."

I watch, helpless, as my rival extends his hand to my partner, my Norge.

Norge hesitates. He doesn't take it. Instead, he addresses England: "May I say goodbye to my colonies?"

England glances at Sweden. Sweden nods.

Norge turns on his heel and strides swiftly from the chamber, chains jangling. He doesn't even look at me.

* * *

 **NORWAY**

I leave the chamber as quickly as possible without looking like I'm running. I don't want anyone to see me cry. I don't want Dan to see me cry.

I'm escorted to a bedchamber, where my colonies are being kept. I've never agreed with bringing colonies to _peace_ conferences; colonies—children—should never be traded as spoils. At least mine are staying with Dan. At least they haven't been auctioned off like commodities. No one thinks my colonies are commodities, or that they're worth anything at all, and for the first time I'm grateful for that.

I press my lips tightly together to stifle the messy emotion boiling like a geyser inside of me. I don't want my colonies to see me cry either.

I close my eyes and feel instantly dizzy. I feel unstable. I think I'm in shock. I can't believe what's happening.

My marriage to Dan has been dissolved?

I'm being forced to marry Sweden?

The manacles on my wrists jangle as the jailors relieve me of them. Only then do I realize that I'm trembling.

I enter the small bedchamber and I see them, my colonies: my three beautiful colonies asleep in a bed that is not theirs. Theirs is at home in Copenhagen. Faroe is lying on his back in the middle, Iceland to the right, Greenland to the left. Despite being blood-relatives, none of the cold-climate islands looked anything alike. Faroe is silvery, stoic. Greenland is dark, wild. Iceland is the only one who looks like me ( _uncannily like you_ , Dan says). Iceland and Canada are the only colonies who have inherited my eyes, which shine with the lights of the Aurora Borealis. How long will it be before I see Iceland's shining lights again? How long will Sweden keep me for? Looking down at my three colonies, the only colonies I have left, I feel tears blur the edges of my vision, and I know then I can't do it. I can't wake them up to say goodbye.

Instead, I sit on the bed by Iceland's side and I sing them a lullaby.

I brush my fingers gently over their sweet faces, tracing the lines I memorized long ago: Faroe's long, silver eyelashes; Iceland's smooth, rosy cheeks; Greenland's shapely, petal-soft lips. All of them have a different colour hair, all different lengths, but it has the same texture, soft as fine silk ( _just like yours_ , _Norge_ , Dan says). As I sing, I drag my hand over their blanketed bodies, so small, so slight and skinny, with fragile little fingers I know the feeling of so well. They used to grab at me as their squeaky voices cried for attention: cold, hungry, sick, scared, lonely. So lonely. They cried so often for love and affection, and so often I failed them.

 _I'm sorry_ , I think now, touching those tiny fingers I love so much. _I'm sorry I wasn't a better parent to you_.

I was so very young when they were born, a teenager in human-years. If I had had more wealth, more people, more resources, more allies, then maybe. If I hadn't been so selfish and reckless and stupid—maybe. I lost my three eldest island colonies: Orkney, Shetland, and Hebrides. They were taken away from me early. And I lost my youngest colony: Canada, because I abandoned him so very long ago. I lost them all, because—

 _I've been a horrible parent. And now I'm leaving._

I look down at my sleeping colonies and shake my head, but it doesn't matter. Nothing can be changed now.

Tears sting my eyes again as the song ends. It's time for me to go.

Cautiously, I lean down and kiss each of my colonies'—my sweet babies'—cold foreheads, whispering to each one: " _I'll always love you_."

I stand up, turn.

Dan is standing in the doorway watching me, a big, broad silhouette. He's looking at me in a way I don't like. It makes me feel weak.

" _Norge_ ," he says.

I wish he hadn't.

He steps into the bedchamber and meets me in the middle. He's always been so strong. It kills me to see him looking so helpless, now.

"They can't do this," he says, his deep voice—I love that voice—lowered considerately for the colonies' sake. They're such light sleepers. "They can't break us, I won't let them. It's not our fault. It's Napoleon's fucking fault. It's France's fault, not yours. Not mine. Why are they doing this to us? There's got to be something we can do, someone we can bribe or threaten to fix it. Maybe we can pay them? Maybe we can fight it? I'll go to war with Sweden if I have to. I'll organize a resistance to fight him. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you, Norge."

He's babbling, but I'm not listening. Not to his words. I'm listening to how his low voice undulates under the weight of emotion. I'm listening to the sound of his breaths, the gasps and intakes, the habitual intonations that make his voice his. I'm listening to the beat of his heart.

"They can't do this!" he repeats, impassioned.

Dan has always been the most emotional of us Nordics. He's never favoured the cold passive-aggressiveness the rest of us have adapted in modern-times. Dan has always been hot. Hot-blooded. Hot-tempered. Impulsive. His government, his people, may have evolved, but deep down Dan has never changed. They can dress him up, teach him new things, force him into submission, but he's still the warrior deep inside. His hands remind me of that as he takes mine in his. Big, strong, callused and scarred. Hands that won't touch me again after this.

"I know I've made mistakes," he admits. His tone has softened, now. "I know I haven't always been the best partner, but I can't lose you, Norge. You and I, we've always been together. Even when Sweden left and took Finland, you..." He pauses, swallows. "You've always been with me. I can't... _Norge_ ," he says. His voice is so sad. " _I'm so sorry_."

He knows now. He finally understands that we're cornered. We can try to fight Sweden, but I honestly don't think I have the energy left. My people are tired and poor from fighting foreign wars. Dan has strength in him, but I'm afraid it's not enough to stop Sweden and his allies. The strong control the world like they always have, and Dan and I together aren't strong. Not anymore. I'm sorry about that, too.

Dan looks to the bed and tenderness joins the pain and sadness in his voice. "I promise I'll look after them," he says, squeezing my hands.

Something inside of me breaks. I want to ask him to tell the colonies after I'm gone. I want him to make sure they know why I had to go and that I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave them. I want him to tell them that I love them. But I don't ask. I don't say anything. I'm too afraid.

Dan knows this, but he begs me anyway.

"Norge," his blue eyes are beseeching, "say something. Anything. Please, Norge."

I pull my hands gently out of his, breaking contact, but only for a moment. I reach up and cup his handsome face, holding his defined jaw, his smooth cheeks. I can feel locks of his thick blonde hair. I used to braid it when it was longer. I memorize the feel of him. I memorize the way his lips tilt gently upward, even when he's upset; the way his nose slopes, broken so many times; the way his fair eyebrows draw together over his eyes when he's thinking hard; the way his blue, blue eyes pull me in and make me forget everything else.

I kiss him. I kiss him like it really means something, because it does. I kiss him, knowing it might be the very last time.

 _I love you_.

But I don't say it.

I walk away before I can't.

* * *

 **SWEDEN**

 **SUMMER 1815**

 **STOCKHOLM**

Norway is silent the whole journey to Stockholm. I let him be. There's nothing for us to say that we haven't already said on the battlefield and in parliament. If he wants to hate me, he can.

It's late when we arrive and it's a cold summer. There's no entourage awaiting us. I offer my new partner my hand to escort him into the city, but he ignores me. He still hasn't looked at me. I take his hand anyway and pull him along. I don't want to be a villain, but I will not be disobeyed or disrespected in my own house. If Norway expects to be treated like an equal, he's mistaken. He's not my equal. Not here. I will protect him and provide for him, I will give him everything that I am able to, and I will respect him, but I will not tolerate insubordination. I am the master of this house, not him, and he will either accept that or live here in misery until he does. I squeeze his hand hard to convey this fact, but stop almost instantly. Norway's hand is not like Finland's. It's just as cold, just as white, but Finland has small hands that are round like the shape of his face, with callused fingers. Finland's hands have strength in them. I've felt it. Norway's hands are long and so slender that they're almost bony. I'm suddenly afraid that I might break one by squeezing too hard. Briefly, I wonder how he can wield a sword so efficiently with such fragile fingers?

Finland is waiting in the foyer of my favourite house, bathed in silvery moonlight. He's rocking his son—my son— _our_ son—Åland.

"Welcome home," he says, big, pale eyes going apprehensively to Norway. He knows why Norway is here. He knows that Norway is now my partner, my _wife_. He sees our linked hands. I quickly let go of Norway, but Finland has seen. "Hello, Norway," he says.

Norway looks at Finland. He sees Åland cradled in Finland's arms, sleeping, and he looks wordlessly away.

 _How did this happen to us_? I wonder. _We all used to be so close._

I break a tense silence, but I don't make it any less tense. I say: "Does Russia know you're here, Finland?"

Why did I say that?

Finland bows his fair head. "No," he admits. "I wanted to see Åland. I wanted to see..." He doesn't finish, not in front of Norway. He says: "I still have a key to your house."

I nod, but don't ask for my key back. I want him to have it.

"You should return to Russia."

It's hard for me to say, but too easy to imagine Finland suffering Russia's wrath for sneaking away, even if it's just for a short time. If Norway must now obey me, then Finland must now obey Russia. It's how the game of conquest is played. We're all cruel at heart. We all want to take from each other what the other one loves most. Denmark and I have been playing this game for a long, long time, and just when I've finally won his most precious treasure from him, Russia has taken mine from me.

 _How did this happen to us_? I wonder again.

Finland places Åland in my arms and brushes my sleeve. I don't need to feel his fingers skin-to-skin to know how tender his touch is. I take Åland, swaddled in a wool blanket that still smells a bit like livestock. It's been cleaned, but not dyed. I take the baby and cradle him close to my body, like holding a piece of Finland close. Finland smoothes back Åland's sunflower-gold hair and kisses his forehead. He whispers to the little archipelago in Finnish, and I know what he says because I've heard it before:

" _I love you._ "

Then Finland looks up at me, looks at Norway, and leaves. I watch him go until he passes through the gates.

"Come," I say to Norway. I start walking, expecting him to follow. I have no hands to spare for him while I'm holding my son. "I'll show you to your rooms."

* * *

 **NORWAY**

 _My rooms_ —?

"Am I not sleeping in your bedchamber with you?" I ask.

"No," he says.

He doesn't offer an explanation, and I don't ask. I follow Sweden to a suite of three connecting rooms on the second level of his lavish house, a stunning Gustavian manor. He opens the double-doors to a sizeable sitting-room, a bedroom, and a boudoir. Are these all mine, just mine? I've never had my own room before. I've always shared with someone. First it was Dan when we were young, and then Sweden and Finland when they joined our family. Later it was my colonies. I loved sleeping with their little bodies snuggled close around me by the longhouse's hearth, feeling safe in my arms. Then Dan again. I loved sleeping in his bed with my colonies snuggled close to us both, and how safe _I_ felt in _his_ arms. It was Dan for a long time, and it would still be Dan if Napoleon hadn't royally fucked-up. I'd never felt lonely on those long, cold, dark winter nights with my family beside me, but tonight it seems I'll be sleeping alone.

I survey the stylish three-room suite and it's elegant and empty.

"Goodnight," Sweden says.

He closes the door behind me, closing me in.

I don't want to stay here.

Finland and I have that in common. He doesn't want me to stay here, either. I saw the hurt in his eyes when he looked at me and saw me holding Sweden's hand. He saw the hurt in mine, too, when I looked at him and saw him holding his sleeping son. Since our youth, Finland and I have rarely met in peacetimes, but we've always understood each other. In fact, I think he understands a secluded part of my heart that no one else does. It's a compassion born of shared experience. It's tarnished by pity and envy and resentment, but it's not something we'll ever apologize for. It's not something we'll ever verbally acknowledge. It's just something we both respect.

I walk into the bedchamber and see the large, empty bed, and I know my whole family would fit into it, and I feel tears roll down my cheeks. Here, I don't have to hide them. Here, I can finally let them fall.

I walk to the cushioned window-bench and I sit there instead. It's bright out. The moon hangs low in the sky, big and pregnant. I wish it was dark. And I wish it was snowing—blowing, raging, howling.

I bow my head to my knees and cry.

* * *

 **DENMARK**

 **COPENHAGEN**

I empty another bottle, but it doesn't help. I can't feel it anymore. I just feel numb.

I set the bottle aside, but my hand shakes and slips and it falls onto the floor. It lands on a reindeer pelt and rolls. It joins all of the others on the floor, beer from the finest barrels in my finest breweries. How much of it swirls in my belly? How long have I been drinking in the dark for? What day is it? What month? What year?

"Denmark?" says a small voice.

I look up, blink. At first I see a single misshapen shadow. I blink again and it divides into three much smaller shadows: my stepsons. Greenland is clutching Faroe's hand; Iceland is standing a little apart. Iceland looks so much like Norge's colony, so much like young Norge, that I make a strangled noise deep in my throat that scares Greenland.

"Denmark," Faroe repeats. He's a good boy. He's trying to be brave. "Where's Papa?"

I don't reply right away. I look at them, my three little stepsons—so very little—and I open my arms for them.

They come over to me and let me wrap my arms around them, engulfing them. I bury my face in their silky hair—just like Norge's—and I inhale deeply. It smells different but it feels the same. I pull them all onto my lap and sit back in my armchair and hug them. I'm shaking. I can't feel it, but they can and it scares them. _I'm_ scaring them, but I can't stop. The alcohol has numbed my body, but not my mind. Not the hurt.

Hurt.

Hurt.

Oh God, it fucking hurts.

"Denmark?"

This time it's Iceland's melodic voice. I feel his soft, fragile hands on my face, so much like Norge's hands. He lifts my head and I let him. I look at him through a blurry film of angry, unshed tears. He's so tiny, so underdeveloped for his age, but he's not young and he's not afraid. He stares at me and his eyes are so, so beautiful. Just like Norge's violet eyes. They shine. When he's sure he has my attention, he asks gently but very seriously:

"Where is Norway?"

"Gone," I croak.

Greenland cries. Faroe asks: "When is he coming back?"

"He's not."

Greenland doesn't understand what's happening, but he's scared. He buries his head in my chest and cries, cries, cries. And there's nothing I can do except hold him.

Faroe cries too, quietly; stoically. He's a good boy. A strong boy. His voice cracks when he asks: "Why not?"

I'm not as strong as Faroe. I feel broken. The Treaty of Kiel has fucking broken me. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to feel. I don't know how to pull myself together for my people, my stepsons. I don't know how to hide the hurt from the rest of the world. (Not that Europe doesn't know. They know— _the bastards_. They all fucking know and don't care.)

I answer Faroe, but I'm still looking at Iceland. I can't look away.

 _Why not_? _Why isn't Norge coming back_?

"Because I failed to protect him."

That's it. I've said it. That's all I can manage. I'm done. I'm broken—fucking heartbroken. Drunk as fuck and fucking heartbroken. Fuck.

I pull Iceland close and bow my head and press my forehead to his slight shoulder. He holds me. He puts his skinny arms around me and pets my hair and whispers in soothing Icelandic. I don't speak Icelandic, but I don't care. Iceland is so much like Norge. Not Norge, but like Norge. As close a copy as I have right now. So I don't care what he's saying to me. I only care that he's here with me. He and Faroe and Greenland are all I have left of Norge. The three of them, and the song that Iceland quietly sings. It's an old lullaby, and I understand it because it's in Norwegian. In my memory I can hear Norge singing it to the colonies, singing to them in goodbye, and the last threads of my dignity let go.

I rock my stepsons, _my_ colonies now, and I cry as Iceland sings softly to me until I finally— _finally_ —pass-out.

* * *

 **SWEDEN**

 **STOCKHOLM**

I can't sleep, so I go for a walk. It's quiet so early in the morning, a lot quieter than my mind is right now. I can't stop replaying the events that led us here. I can't stop seeing the look on Denmark's baffled face when England declared he and Norway separated, like someone had just ripped out his heart. I call him rival now, but I used to call him brother. I used to love him. A part of me still does— _brother_ —and always will, but that doesn't mean I don't feel justified in my actions today. It doesn't mean I regret what I've done. I know I did the right thing for Norway, for Europe. Even if it doesn't feel like a victory, I know it is. I tell myself it is as I walk down a moonlit corridor, not consciously aware of my destination until I reach Norway's rooms.

I stop.

One minute passes, then two. I don't know why I'm here, but I push quietly inside.

It's bright. All of the windows are open, letting in a breeze that sweeps the gauzy curtains across the floor like ghosts, but nothing else looks touched.

Why am I doing this?

I cross the sitting-room and reach eagerly for the bedroom's doorknob. My heart thumps hard in my chest.

Is it victory? Is it guilt? Is it because I miss Finland? Is Norway Finland's replacement, my new wife?

 _Why am I doing this_? I think as I step inside.

My eyes land on the bed where I expect Norway to be, but he's not. He's sitting on the window-bench, curled into a defensive position, long legs folded, pale-blonde head resting on the glass. Asleep. He looks very beautiful in the moonlight. He _is_ very beautiful; I don't think anyone would disagree. How many others have touched him? Not many. I did once, a long, long time ago when we were all young and stupid. (We're still stupid—look at me; look at what I'm doing—but now our stupidity can't be justified by youth.) I've seen him and touched him before, but it was so long ago that I want to see him and touch him again. He's my partner, now. He's mine to have whenever I want (like Finland is Russia's to have whenever he wants), and right now I don't want to feel alone.

I approach him slowly and lean down, seeing Norway's face anew; shaking the look on Denmark's face out of my mind.

"Norway," I say gently, laying my hand atop his. I don't want to be a villain. I want him to want me too, even if it's just for tonight. _I'm sad_ , _you're sad. Let's be a little less sad together._ "Norway," I say again.

Norway doesn't wake, but he speaks. He whispers very softly: " _Dan_..."

It's sad. It's pleading.

 _What am I doing_?

I straighten and hastily back away. Norway shivers, as if he can sense the retreat of my body-heat, and wraps his arms around himself. Like that, he looks lost. And cold. I fetch a wool blanket from the bed and drape it over him.

I look down at him and I see Denmark, Faroe, Iceland, Greenland. I see his family. I see their broken hearts. I see Finland's broken heart and the last dregs of lust go out of me. I feel awful. I tell Norway this:

"I'm sorry, my friend.

"I'm so very sorry," I confess to his deaf ears.

Then I leave. I shouldn't have come in here. I shouldn't have taken Norway away, because now I'll have to look at him—at the heartache—every single day.

 _What in God's name have I done_?

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Regarding Åland, I know that it was ceded to Russia in 1809, therefore Finland should have taken Åland with him when he moved into Russia's house; however, I decided to leave Åland with Sweden for two reasons. Firstly, I really wanted to emphasize the Swedish influence (i.e. I'm perpetrating a ruse wherein Åland is Sweden and Finland's love-child :P). Secondly, I wanted to emphasize Finland and Norway's similarities by separating them both from their children. So, please excuse me completely botching up Åland's history to fit my plot.


	2. Part Two

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **WINTER FRIENDS**

* * *

 **PART TWO**

 **FINLAND**

 **MID-1800s**

 **STOCKHOLM**

Norway sits at Sweden's side, where I used to sit.

He sits on the seat that used to be mine, the one I spilt ink on once and cried. The one Sweden loved me on—loved me, never just fucked me. Denmark fucked Norway, but Sweden always made love to me. I cried then, too.

A part of me wants to cry now, and has wanted to ever since I was conquered by Russia. Conquered by, not married to. I may never have been officially married to Sweden either, but it felt like we were. He called me his _wife_. I thought I hated it, but I guess I didn't. I know that now. I know now how much better it was with Sweden. I know now how much Sweden really loved me and how much I loved— _love_ —him. I wish I had known it then. I never would've left Sweden if I had known Russia was waiting. Being Russia's little Grand Duchy makes me want to kill myself. And this, seeing Norway sitting at Sweden's side as his new _wife_ ; seeing Norway holding my son, _my_ Åland, makes me want to kill Norway.

This is the worse state visit ever. And Russia is fucking smiling.

Russia is looking right at Sweden across the garden table and smiling his big, stupid, childish smile that's not like a child's smile at all.

Not like Åland, whose smile is joyful as Norway bounces him on his lap. Sweden's people tell me that Norway is rarely without Åland, that he takes my baby everywhere. I should be glad my son isn't being neglected in my stead, but I'm not. I'm jealous. I should be sympathetic that Norway's colonies were taken from him (or rather, he was taken from them), but I'm not. I'm bitter. I'm jealous and bitter about Norway's relationship with Åland— _my_ Åland—just as I'm jealous and bitter about his relationship with Sweden. I wanted to ask Sweden's people if Sweden and Norway have sex, but I didn't. I want to ask, but I don't want to know. It's been thirty years since the Treaty of Kiel. Of course they're having sex! But is it just sex, or does Sweden make love to Norway like he used to make love to me? Russia has told me so many horrible rumours that haunt me and keep me awake at night. I sit in bed and say over and over: _it's not true_ , _it's not true_ , _it's not true._ As long as I don't ask, I can pretend it's not true.

Norway tickles Åland's rosy cheeks and my Åland giggles.

"Denmark looks really well lately," I say conversationally, "since you left."

I say it because I want to hurt Norway, because he's hurting me, because I'm an awful person. I say it because I know it'll work, and it does.

Norway stiffens. "Dan— _Denmark_ is strong," he replies reticently. He doesn't look at me. He never looks at anyone anymore unless he wants to fight.

"Oh, yes," I agree, flavouring my voice with sweet cynicism. "He and Germany had a little... disagreement recently, but it's resulted in his government becoming a constitutional monarchy. And he's got free press now, free religion, and he's given the vote to all adult males, not just the bourgeoisie. He's become quite the _modern man_ , and quite the artist, too. Who knew that Denmark could paint? The Danish Golden Era, that's what all of Europe is calling it. Oh! And he's completely abolished slavery in the Danish West Indies. Can you believe it? Formerly the largest slave auctions in the world and now it's illegal. It's like he's become a completely new nation since you left him, Norway. I wonder if you'd even recognize him."

I'm smiling a mercenary smile because I've hurt him, I can see it, and it makes me feel good. For a moment I feel like I've won something. I've made Norway feel just as badly as I do. _I'm a horrible_ —heartbroken— _person_. Then Norway's pale lips curl into a glacial smile. He ignores everything I've said about Denmark, and in a serene voice says:

"Åland called me Papa Norway yesterday. It was so sweet."

His words crush me. They hit me like a punch and I stare at him in blatant disbelief. I glare at him. I want to shoot him right in his pretty face and scream: "Åland is _my_ son! Sweden is _my husband_!" But I don't, because that's not who I am. I don't scream. I don't fight. Not here. Not like this. I might live on the boarders of Russia, but I'm still a Nordic, and we Nordics are not a confrontational lot. Not anymore. I look at Norway and he looks at me and we both know that he's won. He's been playing this cold, cruel game a lot longer than I have. It makes me realize:

 _What am I doing_? _Why am I trying to isolate the only potential ally I have_? _Why am I trying to hurt one of my oldest friends_?

Norway stands up swiftly and excuses himself. Sweden nods. Norway bobs a curt bow to Sweden and Russia and then takes my son—my Åland—and leaves.

 _Oh_ , I think, feeling rejected, _that's why._

* * *

 **NORWAY**

Norway!" Finland calls. He hurries into the courtyard, following me like I knew he would. I stop and patiently wait for him, his son aloft in my arms. Åland is asleep now. He sleeps so deeply, this little one. Mine are all such light sleepers, like me. Dan was always the hardest to wake.

"Norway," Finland repeats, stopping in front of me. He extends his arms expectantly. "Please let me hold my son."

I don't hesitate. Why would I? I know the look of a father who dearly misses his child. I see it every day in the looking-glass.

Finland takes Åland and cradles him and kisses him, and I'm touched by the picture of paternal affection he doesn't try to hide. It's something I've always admired—envied—about Finland, how easily and openly he loves. I bet he used to tell Åland _I love you_ every day when he lived in Sweden's house. I wish I had said it more to my colonies, because now I can't be sure that they know. Do they know how much I love them? How could they, when I never told them? Finland's display tugs at my heartstrings. Maybe that's why I say:

"Why are we acting like enemies, Fin?"

He looks up in surprise. He regards me wearily, but shakes his blonde head: _I don't know_.

"We're not enemies, are we?" I say, guiding the conversation.

"No," he says quietly, cuddling Åland. He presses his cheek to Åland's head. It's gold, like Sweden's. His face has softened now, no longer the cruel sneer of a fox, and I think it's because of Åland. It's not Åland who needs to feel safe and soothed right now, it's Finland. "I never wanted to be your enemy, Norja. I'm just... so unhappy," he admits, his voice heavy and tired.

"I know," I reply evenly. "I have a family that I miss, too."

With these words, I'm reminding Finland that I didn't choose this life in Sweden, it was chosen for me, and if I did have a choice it would be very, very different. I wouldn't be here. I'm reminding him how hard I fought to declare my Independence in the summer of 1814; that Dan and I went to war with Sweden—albeit, shortly—because we didn't want to accept the treaty terms. I fought as hard as I could, but I failed. I remember glaring up at Sweden's victorious face from my knees. I remember feeling abandoned by Europe, but Europe's never cared what we do in the north. I remember thinking: _Dan_ , _where are you_? _Why aren't you here_? I remember crying. Me. I fucking cried when Sweden threw me over his shoulder and carried me off. I'm reminding Finland of all this because he seems to have forgotten. He seems to have forgotten that I tried to fight Sweden's ownership of me just as fiercely as he tried to fight Russia's ownership of him. I'm reminding Finland that he and I are not so different, after all.

"I haven't fucked Sweden, you know."

Finland's shocked by that. "You— _haven't_?"

"No."

"Not once?"

"Not once."

Finland is trying to process my confession. He's skeptical, but he has no reason not to believe me. I've never been a liar. And I'm not a charitable being. If I wanted to hurt him, I would.

"I just assumed..." he says haltingly. His face is twisted as he tries to picture Sweden and I together, and then realizes he doesn't _want_ to picture it. "I mean, you're married..."

"But not to the person either of us wants to be. It's not like that between Sweden and I, Fin. Sweden has been good to me," I admit (it's hard to say), "but I haven't had sex in thirty years."

Finland is quiet for a long time, but I'm patient. He looks thoughtful, relieved. I'm glad I can give him this, at least. He closes his eyes, but when he opens them they're glassy and reveal pain. In a soft, sad whisper, he confesses to me:

"I _wish_ I haven't had sex.

"I wish I... but Russia, he..." Finland takes a deep, shaky breath. "He's not home. He's not my... Norja, every single day I wake up in Russia, I want to kill myself."

I don't speak. I'm not good with words and nothing I say can fix it, so I simply open my arms. He comes over to me like a child, like my scared younger brother— _Do you remember when we were brothers_ , _Fin_?—and lays his fair head on my shoulder. He's still holding Åland, hugging the little one to his chest. I can feel Åland's rocky archipelago as I wrap my arms around them both and hold my friend as I rub his back.

"I hate that this has happened to me—to us," Finland whispers. It's hard to know which _us_ he's referring to. It could be he and I _us_ , or he and Sweden _us_. Either way, he sounds bitter. "I hatethat I'm so weak. I hate being so powerless, unable to govern myself. I want autonomy," he says even softer, like it's a secret. " _I want Independence._ "

As I pet Finland's blonde head, I spot Sweden and Russia walking toward us from the garden, and I fleetingly lock eyes with them both. Sweden is tense, but Russia is relaxed and smiling. I glare at them and softly say:

"Me, too."

* * *

 **DENMARK**

 **COPENHAGEN**

Is that Norway?"

I startle and drop the paintbrush, freckling myself in sky-blue. "What happened to knocking?" I ask Germany curtly.

"I did knock, you didn't answer," Germany says.

I grab a rag and wipe my hands, smudging the paint. I feign boredom as Germany walks fully into the studio, looking dashing in a charcoal suit, his white-blonde hair combed back, his chiselled face flushed from the biting wind. I catch my reflection in the dark window-glass and realize how haggard I look in comparison. On my good days, I look good. I feel good. But on my bad days... I toss the rag aside and shake thick, paint-splattered hair out of my face. I'm shirtless with no socks or shoes on, and my suspenders hang limply at my hips. It's my studio, and I wasn't expecting company. I didn't _invite_ company.

I watch as Germany draws tentatively closer to the piece I've been agonizing over in more ways than one.

"You didn't answer," he repeats. "Is that Norway?"

He nods to the large canvas. It's a landscape: a winding, sapphire-blue river flanked by evergreen forests and towering, snow-capped mountains, the majestic fjords. It's a portrait of the most beautiful land on this whole God-forsaken earth. Of course it's fucking Norway!

"No, it's Iceland," I lie.

Germany knows I'm lying, but he doesn't contest it. He's way too formal to acknowledge what it is I'm doing. Landscapes to human artists might be low-profile, but to us it's a very intimate thing. Self-portraits are self-glorifying; and lots of empires paint their colonies. (France paints Canada _all the time_. For good reason, I guess. He's a beautiful young colony, like his father. His birth-father, not his imperial fathers—fucking France, fucking England.) But when we're painting each other, every brushstroke is like a caress; every detail a subtle exploration of that nation's body. Painting the geographic-body is the closest we can come to making love to the human-body without actually touching. It's like painting your lover nude. At least, that's how it feels to me.

(I _may_ be drunk as fuck right now. And I _may_ do masturbatory things in this studio I hope no one ever finds out about.)

"Prussia and I are going to Amsterdam tonight," Germany says, stepping back from the canvas. "You should come with us."

Before I can reply—refuse—Prussia strides in, looking typically clean-cut and smug. _Don't knock_ , _jackass._

"Hey, cousin," he greets me, hands hanging casually from his trouser-pockets. (Does he intentionally ignore Parisian fashion? I don't think he's updated his wardrobe since the Middle Ages. It's entirely monochromatic.) He looks me up and down and nods in mock-interest. "You've really got that tortured artist thing happening lately, huh?"

"What do you want?" I deadpan in reply.

"Germany and I have come to drag you out of this... this hole," he insults my studio. (Okay, it's a little messy right now, but Prussia has never appreciated art.)(Okay, I never used to either, but I've needed a distraction lately and art is supposed to be soothing.) "Come on, Denmark," he orders. "Get dressed, take a bath—there's no law against it, by the way—grab your coat and pocket-book, and let's go get drunk in Amsterdam. Uh, drunk-er," he corrects, noting my inebriated state. "Whatever's been eating at you," he adds, pretending that he doesn't know; that everyone doesn't know, "Netherlands will help you forget it."

"No."

"Oh, come on, Denmark. Just for tonight—"

" _No_ ," I growl. " _I can't_."

Prussia tenses, sensing my tone, the cusp of me losing my temper. He exchanges a weary look with Germany. I can see exactly what he's thinking, because it's written all over his pasty face: _For fuck's sake_ , _pull yourself together_ , _Denmark_ , _it was just a fucking breakup_!

 _Heartless jerk._

"I can't forget," I break the awkward silence. "I... don't want to."

"Okay," Prussia says cautiously. His rigid posture relaxes a bit, like he's trying to coax a kicked dog. He looks like he's going to reach out and touch me, but he doesn't, and I'm glad he doesn't. "Okay, don't forget it then. Not the good stuff, okay? Just drown the bad memories. Just once, just for tonight."

"I can't," I repeat miserably. I swipe at my nose, painting it blue, and shake my head. "I've tried, okay? I've tried really fucking hard, but I can't drown these ones. These fuckers can swim."

* * *

 **SWEDEN**

 **DECEMBER**

 **STOCKHOLM**

Norway is in the nursery, putting Åland down for a nap. I wait for a moment, then wrap my arms around his tapered middle and pull him back against my chest, away from Åland. I hold him close, bowing my head to feel the softness of his silky pale-blonde hair. I breath in deep. He smells a little like ice and evergreens, sweet like pinecones. He walks with me as I move backwards, out of the room. He lets me pull him into the bright, window-lined corridor. This is my favourite house because of all the windows that bath the interior in sunlight for the few hours a day we actually have it in winter. It's only two o'clock in the afternoon, but it's already the _golden hour_. It's my favourite time of day, maybe because the light is so fleeting, so precious this time of year. The sun is sinking fast; it'll be gone in an hour.

I walk backwards until my back presses against window-glass, holding Norway back-to-chest in my arms.

He doesn't move and he doesn't talk and I'm grateful for both. I just want to hold him right now, my wife. He and I are family now— _we always have been_ —and today is a time to be with family. I wish that Finland was here. And Denmark, too. But they're not, so I hug Norway tightly. I close my eyes and take another deep, indulgent whiff of him. It's festive: sweet, like mulled wine. Tonight we'll toast the holiday and drink wine together in a silence that's become comfortable—constant—for both of us. We'll plaster smiles to our faces and give Åland the gifts we've made for him, and for a little while we'll act like everything is okay. We'll act like a real family. But once the baby is asleep, I'll go to my bedchamber and he'll go to his, and come morning we'll both stop pretending and go back to being what we are. Whatever that is.

We've tried to become more a few times. Since 1814 we've both had our bad days, our lonely days, but one of us has always pushed the other away. We're never in sync. If I want him, he doesn't want me. If he wants me, I don't want him. Once, Norway came to me swaying and smelling strongly of vodka and wearing nothing but a robe that barely concealed his luscious body; sleeves falling off his shoulders; sash tied loosely at his waist, leaving his long legs on blatant display. He looked up at me and wordlessly licked his shapely lips, watching me through long-lashed violet eyes that looked hazy. Dead. I might have done it... if I hadn't looked into those dead eyes. Another time, it was me. I cornered Norway in the conservatory and swept him off his feet. I threw him down onto the billiards table and spread his legs, wrapped them around me, and kissed his neck—sucked and bit his neck—as I tugged at his clothes. I didn't feel like myself when I did it, but a part of me didn't care if I hurt Norway. A part of me _wanted_ to hurt Norway. A part of me wanted to blame him for everything that had happened to us. He let me grope him for a minute, then he pressed a hand to my chest and said: " _Stop_." And I did. That's as close as we ever come to having sex. We've kissed and we've touched, because thirty years is a long time to live with no physical affection, but it has never escalated into more. There's a line we're both too afraid to cross. Maybe it's because if we do it, if we have sex, if we make love, we're afraid that we'll lose something we'll never be able to get back; something too deep and important to risk for a moment of pleasure.

I lean down and press my cheek to his, and he reaches up and cups my face. I sigh and lean into his touch. I feel him turn his head and lift his chin, and then we're kissing. His eyes are closed, long, pale eyelashes brushing his cheeks. I close mine, too. It's slow and soft and needy, but not arousing. It's a kindness. It says more than either of us ever does.

It says: _I love you_ , _but I'm not_ in _love with you._

He pulls away first, but his lips linger close to mine. I can feel his cool breath. I can taste it. Softly, he says:

"Happy Christmas, Sverige."

"Happy Christmas, Norge."

* * *

 **FINLAND**

 **NEW YEAR'S EVE**

 **ST. PETERSBURG**

At midnight it will be forty-one years, three months, and fourteen days since I was conquered by Russia.

But I don't want to think of that now. It's New Year's Eve and it's snowing big, fat, fluffy flakes—the very best kind. Lithuania is carrying a lantern that casts a soft yellow glow over the snow, illuminating a forest of skeletal trees. There's no footpath, but Lithuania knows exactly where he's going. His ice-skates hang over his shoulder as he walks, leading us. The snow crunches as Estonia and I follow him, with Latvia riding on Estonia piggyback. Latvia isn't much younger than the rest of us, but he's as carefree as a child, so that's how we all treat him. Maybe it's because we like to play with him and tease him and spoil him; maybe we feel like we have to shelter him; maybe it's our fault that he's never really matured, but even so I can't help admiring his childish positivity. Somehow, he's never lost his innocence. I think it's because of Estonia. Latvia has been a good friend and ally and housemate to Lithuania and I, but to Estonia he's always been a baby-brother. Estonia has always been Latvia's steadfast protector. I smile as Latvia leans forward to talk to Estonia, pressing their rosy cheeks together. He squeezes his eyes closed and laughs at Estonia's quiet reply. I'm carrying their ice-skates for them and feeling peaceful for the first time in months.

Lithuania sets the lantern down on the frozen lake, creating an angelic circle of light. I strap my ice-skates on and I'm the first to begin a lazy circuit. I love the scraping sound of metal on ice and the feel of gliding. I don't feel like I'm as clumsy as I am on land; I feel graceful. My ice-skates slice through the fresh snow, creating twisting patterns. I thrust out my arms and throw back my head and spin in a circle, feeling invigorated as the cold, windless night kisses my face. I can hear Latvia's laughter as Lithuania hits Estonia with a snowball, then his shriek as Estonia races toward him in retaliation. Estonia chases Latvia into Lithuania's outstretched arms and then the three of them are sliding and spinning together. I watch them from a distance because I don't want to intrude on their play. I may be their friend by proximity and their housemate by force, but the three of them are family.

It makes me miss my family, my son and—

I remember the last time I went ice-skating with Sweden, just the two of us. It was a brisk, bright night and we skated beneath the moon. And we kissed beneath the moon. And we, uh... did _other stuff_ beneath the blinding full moon...

I shake my head.

I think about the last time Sweden and I went ice-skating together with Denmark and Norway. Denmark's laugh boomed like cannon-fire as he leapt at Sweden and the two of them crashed down. For a moment, I thought they had cracked the ice. I rushed over only to find them rolling around in the snow, growling and grappling with each other in a way that looked wicked, but was playful. Denmark sat on Sweden's chest and shoved a handful of snow into his face, laughing. " _Hungry_ , _Sweden_?" he taunted, until Sweden kneed him in the stomach. " _Ouch_! _N-Norge_!" he whined in self-pity. Norway ignored him. He was holding both of Iceland's mitten-clad hands as the colony took baby-steps across the ice, testing his balance. Later, I took hold of one of Iceland's hands and Sweden took the other and we pulled the little colony across the ice, listening to his excited giggles, keeping him safe between us while Denmark and Norway did _other stuff_ elsewhere.

"Finland," says Lithuania kindly. He hands me an ivory flask of vodka. "Are you feeling okay?" he asks.

"Yes, of course." I smile. I drink deeply. "Why?"

Lithuania shakes head. He had tied his nut-brown hair into a ponytail, but a few locks have slipped out and are frizzy from play. "It's nothing," he says, taking the flask I pass back. "You just looked like you were somewhere else for a minute."

 _I wish I was somewhere else_.

"Let's play a game," I suggest, skating off. Suddenly, I need to do something fast and physical. "I'll race you to the tree-line!"

Later I'm back in Russia's house, untying my seal-skin boots when Russia walks in. "Hello, little Finland," he says. That's the only thing he says before he closes the gap between us. He doesn't kiss my lips. He never kisses my lips and I wonder why, but I'm also glad he doesn't. Instead, he kisses my neck and my shoulders and my chest as he undresses me, pulling off my clothes and discarding them with disinterest. Russia is a surprisingly slow lover, at least to start. He doesn't rush anything. He takes his time touching me in ways that make me shiver, as if he has all the time in the world. He uses his huge hands like tools that pleasure me as much as they torment me. By the time he eases me down onto my hands-and-knees I'm trembling in anticipation and my cock is weeping in desperate desire for more. He squeezes me and rolls his fist and I bite my lip, but a high-pitched squeak escapes me. _I won't beg_! I think, even as I cry-out in agony. Because I want it. I want Russia inside of me—or, my body does. My heart aches as I cave and beg my overlord to fuck me. I'll hate myself later, but right now I want it so badly I beg. Russia likes it when I beg. " _Please_ , _please—_! _I want it_!"I he gives it to me. He presses down on me, chest-to-back. He never fucks me face-to-face. (I'm glad for that, too.) I don't look at him and he doesn't look at me as his cock enters me, filling me. It's not an uncomfortable feeling, as much as I wish it was. It feels familiar. It feels good. So very good, and so very, very bad. I close my eyes and clench my hands and pant and cry, urging Russia—" _yes_ , _yes_ , _yes"—_ as he fucks me, no longer slow and teasing but hard and fast. I can feel his hot, wet breath in my ear. He ejaculates inside me and then pulls out, and I can feel his semen running down my thighs. I collapse on my stomach, my cheek pressed to the floor, flushed and panting and trembling. My knees are red with rug-burn. There are tears on my face. I feel Russia's smiling lips gently kiss my shoulder.

"Goodnight, little Finland," he says. Then he leaves.

As soon as the door closes, the guilt crashes down on me. I feel cold and alone and sick to my stomach. I feel cheap and dirty. Tainted.

I curl into a defensive ball and cry. Alone in the dark, I start hating myself again.

* * *

 **SWEDEN**

 **STOCKHOLM**

I lie awake in bed. I can't sleep. I don't sleep well alone.

Norway doesn't either, but he's always been a bit of an insomniac.

Tonight is a bad night for me because everything reminds me of Finland. I don't think about him as much in the summer months. Summer is lively and busy and selfish, but winter is a time of quiet hibernation when friends and family should be together. It's a time to lock the doors and stoke the fire and drink hot cider and mulled wine and just be content in each other's comforting presence. It's a time we Nordics cherish for its simplicity and relaxation. There's no better feeling than having nowhere to be.

It reminds me of being trapped with Finland and Denmark and Norway long ago, snowed-in because of a blizzard. Finland was pregnant with Åland at the time, and he was craving butter cake, so I made it for him. He looked so small in my sweater, yet so very beautiful. His smile is the most beautiful thing in the world. He and Norway were playing cards on the fur-covered floor in front of the fire, talking quietly so as not to wake Denmark, who had fallen asleep with his dishevelled head in Norway's lap. Norway was holding playing-cards in one hand and absently teasing Denmark's blonde locks with the other. Denmark and Norway are surprisingly physically affectionate with each other. They were always touching back then, even if they had the babies between them. That night, Iceland was lying asleep in Denmark's arms, pillowed on the Dane's broad chest. The other two babies—Faroe and Greenland—were curled-up together in an armchair, snoring like puppies.

That had been one of the worst snowstorms in living-memory, but when I think of it I don't recall the cold darkness. I remember the sound of the crackling fire, the weight of woollen blankets, the smell of pine and spruce needles, the taste of buttered treats, and the feeling of being safe and calm and happy. I remember holding Finland in my arms, his fair head on my chest, my hand resting on his midriff. I remember falling asleep to the steady, soothing beat of my wife and unborn son's hearts. Even though the storm raged outside for days, my world had never felt so peaceful.

I don't know why I'm thinking of this now. Maybe it's the festive season that makes me think of my former-family, my brothers, my Finland. Maybe I think of Finland—his sweet smile, and the way his round eyes sparkle when he laughs—because he loves this time of year so much.

Or, maybe it's because a part of me is _always_ thinking of Finland, no matter the season. I've been so lonely without him. I've felt so guilty.

It's my fault he's gone. It's my fault he succumbed to Russia, because I wasn't strong enough to protect him back then, and I'm not strong enough to liberate him now. I let him down. How many words were left unspoken? How many promises were left unfulfilled? Seeing him with Russia kills me, because I know there's nothing I can do. I had my chance a half-a-century ago and I wasted it. I could've been more supportive. I could've given him more. Instead, I lost him because I wasn't strong enough—I wasn't brave enough—to make it matter. There are a lot of different kinds of strength in the world, not all of them physical. Love is, perhaps, the most difficult kind. It's the hardest won and the easiest lost. I lost Finland because I wasn't strong enough to be the partner, the husband, he needed me to be.

My bedroom door opens, admitting Norway. He doesn't make a sound as he approaches, but I know it's him because I can smell him—ice and pinecones and a pinch of purple heather. He doesn't smell like alcohol tonight, and I wonder briefly why he's here. (He rarely comes to me sober.) Then he crawls onto the bed without asking and burrows under the blankets. His long, slender body curls against mine, his pale head resting on my pillow. I don't move, not to draw him closer and not to push him away, even though I want to do both.

"I can't sleep," he says quietly.

"Me neither," I reply.

We don't sleep and we don't talk. We lie together in the dark until sunrise.


	3. Part Three

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **WINTER FRIENDS**

* * *

 **PART THREE**

 **DENMARK**

 **LATE-1800s**

 **BERLIN**

I'm rifling through old documents when I see a pencil-sketch of a ship and I stop. We called ourselves voyagers, but the rest of the world called us Vikings. I've got to admit, I like their term better. I trace my fingers over the ship's two-dimensional details, remembering how it felt to build them by hand and sail by the strength of my own body, rowing back-and-forth; my muscles flexing, my back and shoulders rippling, my midriff clenching; the wind blowing my hair and biting my naked skin as the ship propelled forward. At the risk of sounding self-glorifying, I had a killer body back then. I looked like something truly formidable. (I still wouldn't trade it for chocolate cake, though. God, I love cake.) Back then I was hard as nails, and not just on the outside. Norge and I sailed everywhere in ships like this one. Norge and I _fucked_ everywhere in ships like this one.

The thought prompts a picture of Norge in my mind. It's a memory, a good one—a _really_ fucking good one.

He's leaning against the mast and wearing nothing but an unbuttoned fur-lined coat that's slipping off snow-white shoulders. His legs are spread, inviting me to take, but it's his eyes that seduce me. One look into those violet eyes and I'm gone. I'm his. And the arrogant (sexy) jerk knows it. I love the hungry way he's looking at me. It says: _I want you now_. He doesn't say a word, but he doesn't need to. I'm already crossing the deck and scooping him into my arms, slipping my hands under the coat to grope his damn fine ass before sliding them down his thighs, lifting him. I shove his back against the mast and press my body against his, and then we're kissing, kissing, kissing. It's all tongues and teeth, and he's pulling at my hair, and I'm digging my fingernails into his skin. He wraps his legs around my waist and then I'm fucking him hard. I can feel his back strike the mast with every urgent thrust I give him. I can feel his fingernails scoring my naked back. I bite his neck. When Norge and I fuck, it's not slow and sweet and tender. Norge and I—we like it rough. I love the feeling of Norge's writhing body against mine; I love the smell of our mixed sweat and semen; I love the earthy taste him, my lover, my partner in everything. But mostly I love the sounds of his gasps and pants. Norge never says anything when we fuck, except for my name. (" _Dan_ , _Dan_ , _Dan_ — _Oh_ , _Danmark_.") He's not loud and he rarely cries-out. He bites his lip and fights to keep his voice contained, and I love it. I love it because when he finally does break and cries out (" _A-ah_ , _Dan_!") it's because of me. His voice sounds like it's being ripped from deep inside of him and it makes me want to fuck him harder. It feels like victory.

I stop and shake the memory from my head. It's not the first time I've been hard in Germany—the country, not my little cousin—but I really don't want to get caught jerking-off here (...not that it would be the first time...).

"Denmark?" says Germany, walking into the archive. "How are you?" It's as close as he ever comes to asking how I'm feeling. Germans (and Prussians) don't like to acknowledge that people have feelings.

"Why do you have this?" I ask instead, holding up the pencil-sketch.

Germany shrugs.

"Can I have it?"

It's hardly a work of fine-art, it's not worth anything to him (or anyone else). He frowns, and asks: "Why?"

I shrug and pocket the memory. Because it's worth everything to me.

* * *

 **NORWAY**

I attend parties with Sweden, now. I attend these international gatherings as Sweden's possession, which is how I feel when they look at me, like I'm the barbaric bride of a conquered tribe. Not that they look for long; none of them care. Sweden is greeted politely and given all of the social graces that befit his international station, but otherwise we're left alone. I'm glad for this. I don't like crowds, I never have. Fortunately, my cold, vacant look is enough to hide the social anxiety I feel. I wear it like a shield to protect myself, but I've never been able to shake the discomfort that pinches my insides. I don't like meeting new people. I don't like making new friends. I've always been content with the few friends I have—I say friends, but I mean family. There are few nations outside of my Nordic family whom I can relax around. I'm guarded with everyone else. _Guarded_ , that's Dan's word. I miss him. As I scan the crowded ballroom, I miss the feel of Dan beside me, shielding me, guarding me. I feel exposed without his big, loud, boisterous personality. I feel vulnerable to small-talk without Dan to divert attention. As Sweden and I walk the perimeter of the crowded dance floor, I pray that no one talks to us. Without Dan's casual—mildly inappropriate—jokes and Finland's bubbly smiles, Sweden's and my social ineptitude is on blatant display.

"Let's dance," Sweden says. It's not a question, but not quite an order. He suggests it because it's better than us hugging the wall like social pariahs. At least if we're dancing, we're moving. No one can talk to us if we're moving.

I fold my right hand into Sweden's, then rest my left on his shoulder. It's not as broad as Dan's, and his hand isn't as warm. He's taller than Dan by a mere fraction of an inch, but I notice the difference. I'm not a good dancer, but Sweden is. He's memorized all of the steps to all of the fashionable dances, and I know this because I've seen him practicing alone.

The picture of Sweden practicing his dance steps with a phantom partner is unexpectedly funny and I laugh.

"Norway?" Sweden looks down at me in uncertainty.

I shake my head in dismissal, wishing that I could share my amusement with him. But if I told him, Sweden would reply with something dry and logical, like: " _I won't learn if I don't practice_." He wouldn't understand the joke like Dan would.

I miss laughing at Sweden and Finland—everyone—behind their backs with Dan. It sounds cruel and maybe it is, but maybe I don't care. Maybe Dan and I secretly have a cruel sense of humour. But it doesn't hurt anyone. We'd never want to hurt anyone with it; we're not gossips. When Dan and I laugh, it's not for anyone else. It's just for us.

I'm still smiling to myself when Sweden spins me and I lock eyes with Dan, who's just walked in. I freeze. My smile falls. I haven't seen him in decades.

He looks good.

A part of me is glad he looks so good—spry, healthy, wealthy, stable— _so_ , _so sexy—_ and a part of me wishes he didn't.

Dan smiles at me and for a fleeting moment I think I might actually faint. But it passes quickly and then I'm letting go of Sweden, excusing myself without a word, and I'm crossing the dance floor toward Dan. Dan's smile curls into a rakish grin as he leaves the ballroom, enticing me to follow, which I do. We end up alone in the library together, and suddenly I'm feeling too much all at once. Dan is everything that I want. He's the only one I've _ever_ truly wanted.

"I've missed you, Norge," he says in a voice that caresses me.

Deliberately, I close the distance between us and kiss him. I throw my arms around his neck and thread my fingers into his thick hair, messing it the way I like it. I press my body against his as I thrust my tongue into his mouth and suck on his lips. A desperate moan escapes me, because I've missed this so much. I've missed kissing Dan. His lips are warm and firm, and, right now, they taste a little like chocolate. I've missed touching him, and I've missed the way he touches me even more. The feel of his big, strong, muscular arms wrapped around me, enveloping me in his embrace, makes my knees weak. I've even missed the sharp smell of him, a little bit salty, a little bit smoky.

I want to say: _Dan_ , _I've missed you so much_. _Dan_ , _I love you so much._

What I do say is: "Dan, fuck me right now."

* * *

 **FINLAND**

I enter the ballroom with Russia, my hand folded into the curve of his arm. I wish it looked and felt awkward, but it's not because I'm used to my partner being so much larger than me. Russia's human-body is a fraction broader than Sweden's, but they're of a like height and that comforts me. Some people feel belittled by large men, but not me. I like large men. So does Norway. (If our sexual history isn't evidence enough, just look at the men we surround ourselves with.) Others might feel weak and insignificant surrounded by such physically powerful countries—Russia, Sweden, Denmark, Prussia, Germany, Netherlands—but it's not like that with Norway and I. As long as their leaders don't feel challenged, the big men of the north are some of the kindest and most protective in the world. (Even Prussia began his life as a celibate knight. People so often forget that he wasn't always a selfish dick.) So instead of feeling cowed by Russia's presence, I take comfort in it. I may hate living in his house; I may hate _him_ at times, but at least I know I'm safe from outside threats when he's near. Russia can be very cruel and very frightening, but he's fiercely protective of his _family_ (i.e. Empire).

I spot Sweden and Norway dancing. Norway is stiff, but Sweden is a good dancer. He's not fluid like France and Spain, or elegant like Austria, but he's very precise. There's something actually graceful about his unyielding body as he moves, leading Norway in a circuit. Norway is smiling— _smiling_. It's been decades since I've seen Norway smile. But it's short-lived. Suddenly he stops. His face freezes, void of any readable expression. I follow his sight-line and see Denmark. It's like watching an Irish ballad come to life: the reunion of two lovers after ages apart. The way Norway's eyes soften makes me regret my past spite and jealousy. Without any visible provocation, he follows Denmark out of the ballroom, leaving Sweden alone on the dance floor.

"Russia," I ask, indicating Sweden, "may I?"

Russia's pale gaze flickers to Sweden and back, and he nods. (Sweden is hardly a threat to him anymore.)

I cross the dance floor and stop in front of Sweden, my heart beating in anticipation. "Is this dance taken?" I ask cheekily, smiling up at him.

His smile is easy and indulgent in return. He takes my hand—takes me in his arms—and we begin to move together like we've done hundreds of times before. It's familiar and comfortable and makes me smile bigger. I want to lay my head on his chest and hear his strong, steady heartbeat, but I don't. I squeeze his body beneath my fingers as he leads me around the ballroom, ignoring everything else. I can feel the cords of muscle in his shoulder, and the deep calluses on his big hand, and I tighten my grip on both. I look up at his handsome, chiselled face and my heart skips a beat, because he's looking down at me with those deep sea-blue eyes like I'm the only one in the room. The only one who matters. It feels so good to have his undivided attention. Russia's Empire is so large, I haven't had anyone's full attention in a long time.

"Fin," he says in a quiet, base voice, "how are you? Are you well?"

"Yes," I lie. I don't want him to worry. "How are you? How is Åland?"

"He misses you. We both do."

"I miss you, too," I say. It comes out a bit breathless as tears spring uninvited to my eyes. I try to blink them away, but Sweden's soothing touch only encourages them. The dance ends, but we remain immobile as the next one begins. He holds my waist firmly in one hand—I love the warmth and weight of it, drawing me in closer—and reaches up with the other to catch a teardrop on his fingertip.

"You're not well at all," he says. His tone gently scolds me for lying. "Fin, you're not happy."

Wordless, I shake my head.

He keeps his hand on my waist as he leads me out of the ballroom and into the garden. It's lovely, but I don't see any of it as I walk, letting Sweden take me into the secluded hedge-maze. My vision is blurry. When Sweden stops, I bump into him. I start to step back, to apologize—I feel like such a fool—but he throws his arms around me and pulls me into a strong embrace. And I break. I lean up and wrap my arms around his neck, and bury my head in his chest, and cry. I can feel Sweden bowing, lowering us both to the grass. The next thing I know, I'm in his lap and I'm clinging to him and crying a century's worth of tears as he holds me.

I don't know how long it lasts, but a part of me wishes it would never end. A scared, selfish part of me wishes that I could stay here in Sweden's safe embrace forever.

"I love you, Ruotsi," I whisper. I lift my head and look into his deep blue eyes and they pull a confession from me. "I'm sorry I left like I did. It's all my fault. I'm so sorry that any of this happened, but I want you to know"—I _need_ him to know—"I _do_ love you. Do you..." My voice catches, it softens. A tear rolls down my cheek. "Do you love me?"

Sweden kisses me, and says: "I never stopped."

* * *

 **DENMARK**

 _Ugh_ , _nn—Ah_!"

I release inside Norge, filling him, coating his ass with semen and his palm with saliva. I'm breathing heavily into the hand he's pressed to my mouth in an attempt to quiet me. I pull it off and clumsily kiss his fingers, his palm, his wrist as I gaze greedily down at him. I can't look away from him. He's so beautiful— _so goddamn sexy_ —all flushed and sparkly-eyed, his ravaged body trembling because of me; because of the way I'd fucked him. I lean down and kiss the love-bites on his neck and shoulder. As Norge lies on his back, trying to catch his breath, I drag my lips and hands down the length of his body, slower now than before. When Norge said " _fuck me right now_ " I didn't wait. I don't think I could have. I was too desperate to have him, too desperate to bother with foreplay. Now, though, I want to indulge in him. I touch him slowly and lazily, like we've got all the time in the world—which, of course, we don't. Not anymore. Funny that when we _were_ married and _did_ have the time, we rushed it, we wasted it, but now that our time together is fleeting and forbidden all I want to do is stretch it. I wish I could stop time and stay here with him forever.

"Dan," he says softly, breathlessly.

I kiss the inside of his thigh, then raise my head.

"I haven't fucked Sweden."

I didn't know it's what I wanted to hear until he says it and I'm suddenly flooded with relief.

" _You haven't_?"

Norge shakes his head. "I haven't fucked anyone in a millennia. Just you."

Relief melts into affection as I press another soft kiss to Norge's leg. I didn't think it was possible to love him more, but in this moment I do. His words make me happier than I've been in nearly a century. That is, until he says—

"Have you?"

And just like that, I'm falling. The high from Norge's confession bursts and his question sends me crashing down in a spiral of guilt. Suddenly, I feel sick. I hesitate just for an instant, but Norge knows. He can see the guilt on my face. He tries to act nonchalant, but his body betrays him. His soft eyes sharpen and he tenses, and I know I've disappointed him. He won't say it—he'll never admit it—but a part of him hoped I'd be just as loyal to him as he's been to me. I can see it, and I wish I couldn't. Because it kills me to see how deeply I've hurt him.

Norge says none of this, but he's not looking at me when he asks: "Who?"

I don't want to tell him. Oh, fuck—I don't want to tell him. I'd rather endure Medieval torture than tell him.

* * *

 **1815**

I stumble across the street, narrowly dodging a carriage; disappointed that I didn't. I briefly consider throwing myself in front of the next one that comes by, but I crash into something else instead. Some _one_ else.

I start a slurred apology, but then my foggy brain registers who it is.

I grab fistfuls of England's overcoat and shove him against a brick wall. "You _fucker_!" I rage, fueled by anger and heartache and alcohol. "Why? _Why_?" I holler, slamming him into the wall with each word. (He weighs nothing—skinny sod.) "You destroyed my marriage, you bastard! You handed my Norge to Sweden, you _motherfucker_! Why did you do it? _Why_?" England looks shocked. He's pale, maybe scared. Good. He starts to speak, but I interrupt. "Was it because of France?" I snarl, tightening my grasp. "Was it for fucking France? I don't care how wet you are for him, you little pussy, _you ruined my fucking life_!" I want to strike him. I want to strangle him. I'm losing myself. I need to calm down, I know I do, but I can't. I'm shaking. "Why did you do it?" I repeat, my voice a raw growl. "Are you that fucking bitter that you had to take it out on us? Did you do it just to hurt France? Did you give Norway to Sweden for _fucking France_?"

Finally, England fights back. He gets right up in my face and screams: " _I would give the whole fucking world for France_!

"I mean, to _hurt_ France. That's obviously what I mean..."

It's then I realize how deeply hurt England is, too. I look at him— _really_ take a look at him—and I can see my heartache reflected in his green eyes.

After a tense moment, I deflate. I don't feel like fighting anymore, I feel like a drink.

"I need a drink," I say, releasing England. I don't verbally invite him to follow me, but I walk slow enough for him to catch up if he wants to.

He does.

I duck into the first public-house I see and order two steins. I push one wordlessly at him, then gulp down the other. I buy the second round, too; he buys the third. By the forth, I'm pouring my fucking heart out—grief and alcohol, bad mix—and he's staring at me through the biggest, greenest eyes I've ever seen, his freckled face propped on his hand. It's been a long and lonely night for us both and we're way past the boundaries of social etiquette, now. The one-sided conversation I've been having with him loosens my tongue.

"If you love France so much," I say sagely.

"I don't love France—"

"Then why haven't you ever married him?"

My brain, submerged in steins and steins of beer, is genuinely curious. It seems like such a simple thing to me, but England and France have never been simple. I think we all expected them to get married in the Middle Ages, back when France spent most of his time in England—and I do mean _in_ England—but they never did. Maybe they were too young, just teenagers in human-years. (Though, to be fair, almost everyone in Western Europe was fucking England and France back then.) I cock my head, the room slants sideways, and wait patiently for England's reply.

At first, I think he's just going to ignore me or deny it. I see defensiveness in his hazy expression that tells me I've hit on something old and deep and private, but when he replies his voice is shockingly soft. The fight goes out of him, and he says:

"He's never asked me."

I don't move, I just stare—fucking dumbstruck. England raises his eyes to meet mine, briefly, coyly, sadly.

I kiss him.

I don't know why I do it. Even my inebriated brain knows it's a bad idea, but I do it anyway. I press my lips roughly to England's, forcing him back, back, back until I've pushed him out of the pub and into the ally. It's easy, he's so fucking skinny. He may command strength in the form of empire—the largest empire in the world—but he, himself, is a weak little island. And not even the whole island, just a portion of it. His geographic-body is the most vulnerable land in all of Great Britain. I know it, because I've conquered it before. His power is not self-reliant, like mine is. He's dependent. He always has been. Alone here in this cold, ugly alley, his human-body isn't big or strong enough to fight me and he knows it.

He protests at first, struggling against me, wriggling like a fucking fish, but soon he relents and sinks into my kiss. He grabs my head and pulls me down to kiss harder, wilder. I lift him off his feet with one hand and recklessly tug at his trousers with the other. He's shorter than Norge, and he weighs less; his legs aren't as long as he hooks one around my waist. His ass isn't a shape I'm used to, but it's good enough. It's there. He's there, squirming and whining as I shove my fingers deep inside of him. He's not kissing me anymore. Now his nails are digging into my shoulders and he's clinging to me, making noises that Norge never would, and I'm suddenly reminded of how much younger he is than me. Not that it matters. I've fucked him younger—a _very long_ time ago. Maybe I'm just struck by the fact that England has never changed. He's grown wealthier, more influential, more independent, more powerful, but he's still a scared, lonely soul at his core. As much as he likes to boast of his isolation, he's still afraid of it.

"Close your eyes," I order.

 _Close your eyes and I'll close mine_ , _and you'll pretend I'm France_ , _and I'll pretend you're Norge._

England squeezes his green eyes shut.

And I fuck him.

* * *

 **LATE-1800s**

Norge looks as if I've slapped him. Abruptly he sits up, pulling his legs away from me.

" _England_ ," he repeats coldly, staring up at me. He's upset—really upset. His face has lost all its warmth and animation. The affection is gone. He looks frozen, except for his eyes. His eyes fucking blaze. "You fucked England?"

"Yes, but—"

"England," he says again, letting a sliver of disdain into his tone. "Everyone in Europe, everyone in the world, Dan, and you fucked England. England, the one who did this to us. The reason we're not together."

"I know, I'm sorry—" I reach for him, but he braces his hands in front of himself.

"Don't touch me."

Then he's standing and re-dressing. My semen slides over the curve of his ass and down his legs as he pulls on his trousers. He starts to walk away from me and I panic. I can't watch him walk away from me again, not like this. I hurry to my feet.

"Norge, wait! I can explain, okay? It's not what you think! It didn't mean anything!"

He's not listening to me. He's still walking away. He'll reach the door soon if I don't do something.

I lunge forward and grab his forearm. I just want him to stop and look back at me and know that I'd never intentionally hurt him. I want him to see the apology on my face, but grabbing him is the wrong thing to do. He moves so fast, I don't see his fist until it connects with my jaw. It cracks, but I don't let go. I tighten my grasp.

"Let go of me," he warns.

"Norge, please," I beg. I fucking beg. "It didn't mean anything to me. It was just a fuck, okay? We were both just upset after the Vienna Conference. And drunk. I was angry and confused—"

"I was angry and confused, too," he snaps, "but I didn't fuck _fucking England_! He's the one who did this to us! He's the one who destroyed our marriage, Dan!"

He's yelling now. I don't remember the last time Norge yelled.

" _You fucked England_!" he screams in accusation.

"Oh, come on, Norge—who _hasn't_ fucked England?"

" _Me_ ," he says, and it's cutting. "I haven't fucked England or anyone else for a goddamned millennia, because I was too busy being _your_ partner, you fucking jerk!

"No, don't— _don't_ ," he says, shoving me away when I try to hug him. I'm shocked and horrified by the tears in his eyes. Norge— _my_ Norge—is crying. He looks broken. "Let me go," he says quietly.

I do, but I don't move away. I'm too shocked. Guilt is trying to choke me. All I can manage to say is a hoarse: "I'm sorry.

"Norge, please don't go. I love you."

It's true. It's so fucking true. I hate myself for hurting the only person I've ever been in love with.

"Norge, it was a mistake—"

"Yes," he agrees, piercing me with heartbroken eyes. "A big fucking mistake."

* * *

 **NORWAY**

Sweden is on the terrace.

I ignore the party and walk up to him.

"Take me home," I say.

* * *

 **SWEDEN**

I dry Finland's tears and walk him back to the party. It's late, now. Russia is waiting on the garden terrace, a monolith of stark whiteness in an otherwise colourful landscape. I wonder how long he's been waiting there. He sees Finland's red, puffy eyes and the tearstains on his face, but he doesn't acknowledge his distress. Instead, his accusatory glare is enough to cow Finland into bowing is head. There are a lot of things I could say to Russia as he coils his arm around Finland, pulling Finland away from me, but nothing I say will matter now, so I say nothing. I've already said the most important thing, but those words are not for Russia. They're for Finland's ears alone.

I'm still standing on the terrace when Norway reappears. I don't ask why he looks suddenly murderous, his self-control tethered by threads.

"Take me home," he says.

And I do.


	4. Part Four

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **WINTER FRIENDS**

* * *

 **PART FOUR**

 **NORWAY**

 **EARLY-1900s**

 **OSLO**

In 1905, I declare my Independence. And Sweden lets me.

It's the twentieth-century, the world is a vastly different place than it once was. I've been working really hard to better myself for a long time now, taking advantage of industry, modern science, and social reforms, but these past few decades have made all the difference; the labour has finally paid off. I've finally got strength of my own. I've finally got wealth again. It's been too long and it feels so good. Sweden has been surprisingly supportive. I don't think he ever wanted to see me suffer. I don't think he ever wanted to dominate me, like Dan did. ( _A different time_ , I think, trying not to bitter the memory.) Sweden has even let me govern my own domestic affairs—for the most part, with the approval of the Swedish king. No one knows what's best for me better than I do, and Sweden—thank God—seems to finally understand that. He understands that what I've achieved this past century belongs to me.

As I sign the constitution that solidifies my Independence, I'm proud of what I've accomplished in so little time. I'm proud of who I've become on my own. No longer am I someone's dominion, or territory, or lesser-partner in kingship. No longer am I the afterthought, the second-priority. No longer am I confined by matrimony. I'm single for the first time in five-hundred years. And I love it.

I will never— _never_ —get married again.

* * *

Dan is at my door. He looks dishevelled.

"Norge," he says, worried, "I just heard. I—you, you're—Independence?" He's talking in syllables, as if the words are hard for him to speak. " _Why_?"

 _Why_? Is he fucking kidding me?

"Norge, baby," he says gently, his blue eyes full of fear and disbelief as he explains to me: "You're not strong enough to be alone. You're going to get yourself hurt, go bankrupt, or suffer political unrest. Who's going to mediate your affairs? What if war breaks out?" he panics. "Who will protect you if you're independent? Who will look after you if you're all alone?"

His concern is touching. He really does care about me. I think he always has.

"Dan," I say gently. I reach up and brush my fingers over his clean-shaven cheek. I'm still in love with him. A part of me always will be, despite his _mistakes_ ,but it feels so, so good to finally say:

"Fuck off."

* * *

 **COPENHAGEN**

 _Papa_!" shrieks Greenland. His big black eyes grow wide and he drops his toys and runs to me. He launches himself at me, throwing his soft, pudgy little arms around my neck. I hug and kiss him, so glad to be holding him again. I lift my former-colony right off his feet and he laughs, talking too fast for me to understand. (His words are a garbled mix of Greenlandic and Danish.) I've missed him so much. I've missed his squeaky voice, his clingy fingers, his beautiful dark face with round, rosy cheeks, a button nose, and big black eyes. He might be Dan's colony now, but he'll always be my baby.

Faroe, too.

Faroe sees me, and for a moment he just stares in slack-jawed disbelief. He's skinny, but tall for his human-age. His long-lashed grey eyes are as stark and stormy as ever, but, looking at me, they soften. " _Papa_ ," he whispers. He reaches out and takes my outstretched hand, and I pull him forward so urgently that he stumbles. I catch him and crush him to my side, holding Greenland one-handed. I kiss Faroe's wind-burnt cheeks and press my forehead to his. I breath in his briny scent and recall what he looked like one-hundred years ago when I left. He was still small enough for me to lift up back then. He was still a child. But he's not, now. Now he's a tough-fibred boy of twelve.

I don't see Iceland until later. And I'm stunned.

Iceland— _my_ Iceland; my fifth colony—is a beautiful teenager, now. He's not as tall as I am yet, but he will be someday. He still has my eyes and my colouring, and he has my figure now, too. He still looks like me, more alike me than he ever has, but he doesn't look like my baby anymore. He's not the Iceland I left a century ago. Now, he's—

" _Gorgeous_ ," I say, cupping his cheek. I can't believe it. I'm both sad and happy. Sad because I've missed so much, but happy because he's strong and healthy and: "Iceland, you're gorgeous."

He regards me through bright, violet eyes, and coolly says: "I've got good genes."

He's stiff for a moment, trying to be nonchalant, but then, seemingly unprovoked, his full lips curl downward and his fair brow creases and his violet eyes fill with tears. He tries really hard to control his expression and blushes in embarrassment, but a sharp gasp suddenly escapes him, like he can't hold it in any longer. He chances a look up at me and his cool facade breaks. He bites his lip and shakes his head, and softly says:

" _I've really missed you_."

Tears spill from his eyes and roll down his cheeks.

I don't speak. If I do, I'll cry too. I pull him against me, my arms wrapping around his lithe body like ropes. I never want to let him go again, my Iceland. I never want to leave him again. He presses his forehead to my chest and returns the embrace, his fingers grasping fistfuls of my clothes. I kiss his silky, pale-blonde crown, then lay my cheek against it. I can smell frost and pine-needles, honey and thistles; he's sharp and sweet. His snow-white skin is cold and soft. I don't know how long I stay there, holding Iceland, rocking him gently, my precious colony, until he finally lifts his head and says:

"Don't ever disappear like that again." His voice cracks, but his tone is stern.

I brush a lock off his forehead and smile. "No," I agree, staring into those glowing violet eyes, "I promise."

* * *

 **FINLAND**

 **ST. PETERSBURG**

Finland, what are you singing?"

The Swedish lyrics get stuck in my throat, choked by Russia's cold accusation. "It's nothing," I say, avoiding his gaze, bowing my head in submission.

I can feel his eyes on me and his body drawing close. He leans down over me, dwarfing me, and presses his lips to the shell of my ear. He simply says: " _Stop_." Then he straightens and walks away, hands clasped casually behind his back and whistling as if nothing has happened.

I'm not allowed to sing Swedish songs or read Swedish books or speak Swedish aloud in Russia's house, even though it's my second-language; even though the majority of my upper-class population and all of my administrative and public institutions are Swedish-speaking; even though all of my business is still conducted in Swedish. Russia might not feel threatened by Sweden's ownership of me, but he doesn't like Sweden's lingering influence. He doesn't like any of his conquests to show cultural individuality, least of all a rival's culture. I tried to argue with Russia once. I tried to explain to him how much Sweden's laws and policies had benefited my nation, and how upset my governing population would be if I changed it, now; how much time and money it would cost. But I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have argued with Russia and, that day, he reminded me why.

" _Fine_ ," he breathed thickly in my ear as I trembled and cried, " _keep your Swedish laws_ , _little Finland. But do not forget that you live in_ my _house_ , _and in my house you will speak Russian or Finnish or nothing at all_." His huge hands constricted around my neck, squeezing my throat until it was closed. I tried to gasp, but I couldn't breathe. " _Do not forget_ ," Russia whispered in threat, " _that you belong to_ me."

A couple of weeks later, Russia gifts me a pretty ribbon-wrapped parcel. He smiles as he presents it, as if he's genuinely pleased to pamper me.

"A book?" I ask, unwrapping it. "A book... in Finnish?" I can't hide my confusion, or suspicion.

It's a beautiful first edition of _Kalevala_ , a collection of Finnish folklore.

"Enjoy it," he says (orders?), and then pats my head in a way he must think is affectionate, but which feels belittling, and he walks away.

Despite the gift-giver's dubious intentions, I _do_ enjoy _Kalevala_. A lot. Even if it is Russia's ploy to attract me to Finnish culture instead of Swedish. (His plots are worryingly—almost comically—transparent.) But I read _Kalevala_ from cover-to-cover, then I read it aloud to my housemates. I read it so many times that the binding cracks and the gold-leaf flakes off. Russia is rather satisfied when he sees me carrying it, and, surprisingly, he starts to become more lenient with the concept of Finnish nationalism in general. He doesn't do this with anyone else, just me, and I wonder why, but I'm also too afraid of his fickle kindness to ask. Is it a kindness, or a sly tactic to lure me and my nation away from Sweden's influence?

Since the night in the garden when Russia plucked me, crying, from Sweden's embrace, his attitude toward me has changed. He's nicer to me, now. He listens to me. He indulges my Finnish culture (in Finland) and is receptive to my requests as long as they're in Russian or Finnish. He still intimidates me, and he still takes my body whenever he wants, but he no longer does it to punish or dominate me. I don't cry when we have sex, now. He doesn't fuck me on the floor or against walls, but on his bed; and he doesn't leave me right after, but stays with me—kisses me, cuddles me. It's... nice. I know why he's doing it, of course. It's not because of any growing affection for me, but because he's changed his tactic in governing me. Fear has worked to cow Lithuania and Estonia and Latvia, and everyone else, but it has not worked on me. It's been a century, but, unlike the others, I haven't broken. Yes, I obey him. And yes, I fear him. But I've never stopped trying to quietly fight him. I've never let myself be resigned to my fate as Russia's Grand Duchy, and I've never pretended otherwise. So, Russia has changed his tactic. Instead of bullying me into compliance, he's trying to earn my gratitude and affection with kindness and indulgence (and, I'll admit, phenomenal sex). I'm the only one of his many States who's allowed to promote nationalism. I'm the only one allowed to autonomously govern myself. And it's all because he's trying to win my loyalty from Sweden—

—which is why he hates when I exhibit anything Swedish. It's the only time he loses his temper with me, but when he does he chokes the breath from my lungs. It's a small reminder of how fragile our relationship still is. A small reminder of the limit to his smiles.

* * *

At night, my mind doesn't sleep. It replays the same scene over-and-over. It's not a nightmare, but not quite a dream.

In it, I'm kissing Sweden. His firm, warm lips are pressed tenderly to mine, and it's so good—just as good as Russia's hungry mouth sucking my neck from behind. His is rough and carnal and the urgency sends shivers down my spine. I arch my back and press myself skin-to-skin against Russia's broad chest, even as I stroke my fingers through Sweden's golden hair, wanting him closer, closer. Russia is holding my waist, pulling my backside toward his erection; Sweden's hands are anchored on my spread thighs, pulling me onto his lap, onto _his_ erection. I can feel them both, both big, strong men and their fervent desire—desire for _me_ —and I love it. I want them both. I want Sweden's love and Russia's thirst. I want Sweden, who's my family, my lover, and the father of my son. But I also want Russia, who's given me a chance at freedom, in however small a way. I'm trapped between them and I don't know who to choose.

" _Choose_ ," whispers Sweden.

" _Choose_ ," growls Russia.

 _What do you want_ , _Finland_ , _love or liberty_?

" _Choose_ ," they demand, grabbing me, pulling me. It's protective, it's possessive—I don't know the difference anymore. I don't know what to do.

I'm in love with Sweden, but Russia has given me something Sweden never has and probably never will: the illusion of freedom in autonomy. It's more than I've ever had, and more than I'm ever likely to get. I want to choose Sweden, but he's my past. I don't want the past back. As many fond memories as I have of the past, they're all of me shackled. I want the future, which is Russia. But, oh! how uncertain a future Russia is! I don't trust him. I _can't_ trust him. I _can_ trust Sweden: I can trust Sweden to be the same steady, stoic overlord I've always known, who loved me enough to claim me and care for me, but never enough to marry me. Never enough to grant me my Independence and let me go.

" _Finland_ ," they say, both in deep, commanding voices. " _Who do you want to be with_?"

 _I don't know. I don't know_. _Both of you—neither of you_.

My heart—my people—yearn for Sweden, but my body—the nation, itself—wants Russia.

" _Choose_!" they yell.

No, I can't. I can't do this. They're going to tear me apart.

" _Choose_!"

I wake up gasping every time: my heart pounding in my chest, my pillow wet with tears, the bed-sheets damp with sweat and tented at my pelvis. I cover my face and cry in the silence.

* * *

In 1905, Russia is forced to entertain Sweden for a state visit. It's cold. Both of them are stiff and formal, and Russia's cruel smile is like frost biting at Sweden's stark words. Russia plays a good host and offers Sweden refreshment, which Sweden politely accepts but doesn't eat. The tension is thick between them and I, alone, am not enough to dispel it. In fact, my presence only fuels their rivalry. Unlike the state visit in Stockholm, Norway's not here to support Sweden as I'm here to support Russia, however unwillingly. Norway's not here to balance the political power-play and counteract Russia having me at his side while Sweden sits opposite us, alone. Russia considers this a victory and milks his guest's discomfort by touching me at every opportunity. I blush and look at everything but Sweden's sea-blue eyes.

When Russia excuses himself, leaving us alone together ( _a tease_? I wonder), I ask Sweden where Norway is.

"Norway is no longer mine," he replies, matter-of-fact. "He and I are divorced."

" _Divorced_?" I blurt in shock. "But—why, how? Has he remarried Denmark?"

Has there been a conflict I don't know about? Has Denmark somehow won Norway back from Sweden? Has something happened to Sweden to weaken his strength? Is he ill? Is he bankrupt? I'm so taken aback by this news that I've impulsively leapt out of my seat.

Sweden, however, doesn't move. He simply says: "No, he's not married. I granted Norway Independence."

For a minute, it's so dead-silent in the room that I can hear distant bells tolling the time. I don't speak. I just stare at Sweden in disbelief, seeing him anew.

Sweden has given Norway Independence—?

 _Sweden_ has given _Norway_ _Independence—_?!

I don't believe it. I've misheard him, I must have. I'm dreaming. This is a dream, it has to be, because Sweden would never willingly release his conquests. He's an Empire. (He was a _Viking_!) Empires are greedy, selfish. He's been a competing Empire ever since the Kalmar Union broke apart. And Norway? Sweden has been fighting Denmark over Norway for just as long! I can't believe he would suddenly just let Norway go, because—Why? Because Norway asked? No. It's not something the Sweden I know would ever do. It's not possible. _I don't believe it. I don't believe it. I don't_ —

"Fin?

"It's true," says Sweden, reading my disbelief. "Norway is an Independent country, now."

Finally, my mind stops racing and I look up at him. I finally _see_ him. There are so many things I want to ask him:

 _Why now_? _Why Norway_? _Why not me_?

I simply say: " _Why_?"

Sweden's posture is rigid. His voice is deep and his tone is monotonous as ever, but his blue eyes are tender. He says:

"Because losing you was the worst thing that has ever happened to me, Fin, but it made me realize something important. I love my family more than I love Empire, and I never want to hurt any of you ever again."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Clearly, I know nothing about the Faroe Islands and Greenland's relationship with Europe. But the fictional family dynamic is pretty cute, no—? ...My sincerest apologies, Faroe Islands and Greenland. u_u As for Iceland, I decided to emphasize the "Hetalia"-(head)canon relationship of Norway and Iceland as opposed to any accurate historical interpretation.


	5. Part Five

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **WINTER FRIENDS**

* * *

 **PART FIVE**

 **NORWAY**

In 1914, the Great War rips Europe asunder, but Dan and I both maintain our neutrality. Well, Dan more so than I. Officially I'm a neutral power, but unofficially I'm lending my marine strength to England to help him defend the Atlantic and break the German blockade, which has crippled us all. (Submarines. The Germans engineered dozens of their fucking U-boats. When had they done that? _How_ had they done that?) It doesn't take long for Europe to start calling me "The Neutral Ally" because of my involvement in the conflict. It's a slippery, shadowy, secretive title that I like. It fits me. Mine is an allusive role, but I play it well. I like being useful—being acknowledged for myself and my achievements, not Dan's; not Sweden's. And I _really_ like the money I earn playing benevolent merchant. (I'm making a fortune selling supplies.) But most of all, I love that I've finally been reunited with my abandoned colonies, Iceland and Canada, with whom I patrol the Atlantic. Together we're fighting to preserve the Allies—England, I'm fighting for _fucking England_!—and defeat the hungry Central Powers.

If the later nineteenth-century had been advantageous for me, it had been a lottery for the Germans.

I've never seen a country grow so powerful, so stable, so rich, so self-confident in such a short time, but that's the unified nation that Prussia and Germany have created. It's like they had been biding their time for decades, for centuries, waiting for the opportune moment; waiting and watching and studying everyone else's mistakes; fortifying their own home territory while everyone else was still fixated on global empire. I've known Prussia and Germany for a long time. I know how cleverly cautious they are. Unlike Dan, who likes a battle-cry and a suicide charge, Germania's sons rarely move without plotting out a detailed plan-of-attack. They've always been hard workers and they've always had unshakable ideals. (Stubborn as hell, those two.) But most notably—most frighteningly—they've recently become wickedly good at recruiting others to their cause.

Honestly, I'm surprised that Dan hasn't joined them in the war. The Germans are his closest blood-relatives. But maybe that's why he's remained neutral, because even though he disagrees with their politics, he still can't bring himself to fight against them. Not again. Not now that he knows he can't win, like an old man bested by the youths he once taught. Maybe he doesn't fight because he can't bear the thought of everyone seeing just how far he, the mighty—outdated—warrior, has fallen. (Though, calling Dan _outdated_ and Prussia a _modern-man_ is an oxymoron.) Or, maybe he doesn't fight them because he's already lost too much. In the past decades, he's acquired many things—wealth, stability, art, science, medicine, industry—but he's been shaken by the loss of his family, the thing that Dan has always cherished most. No matter how royally he fucks-up, no matter how often they fight, he always loves them. He always loves _us_. And we always know that.

Dan and I only meet once during the war, and it's brief.

"Dan—?" I say.

Dan shakes his head. "I can't," he says, shrugging. It's a heavy gesture, as if his shoulders weigh a ton. "I can't fight them."

"Why not?" I ask.

I know he's suffering, I can see it. I know he doesn't want to talk about it, but for once I'm the one pushing for an answer, because I want to know. I _need_ to know. He and I have fought in countless battles over the years. We've fought together and apart, but I've never known Dan to hesitate, to ruminate. I've never seen him look so opposed to the fight, especially this one: the war to end all wars. It's truly the most horrific form of fighting I've ever seen, but it's also going to have the longest lasting legacy in history. So, why won't he fight? I need to know why he won't fight with or against me this time, because I know it's not fear and I know it's not just politics. Dan is such an open person that I usually don't need verbal confirmation from him. He's the only northerner I know who doesn't actively control his emotions. But this time I need to hear him say it.

"Why not?" I repeat, pushing. "What won't let you fight, Dan? Your hands or your heart?"

He looks at me, his blue eyes sad. "Both.

"I'm tired," he says honestly. "I'm tired of fighting all the people I love."

Our meeting is brief, but cutting. When I fail to reply, he shrugs again and walks away, like it doesn't matter; like nothing matters anymore. I'm left staring after him, speechless. I want to call him back. I want to soothe him, and hold him, and tell him it's all going to be okay because this darkness won't last forever, even if it feels like it will. ( _The war will be over by Christmas_? _Pft_!) But I say none of this.

I can't say a word, because looking at him breaks my heart.

Then and there, I wish I could end it. I wish I had the strength to silence both sides of the conflict and bring a swift end, if only to spare Dan the pain; pain that's obviously been eating away at him for years; pain that has little to do with the present state of the world. So badly do I want what optimists are saying about this war to be true, that it really will be the end of warfare forever. But I'm not an optimist, and, try as I may, I don't believe for a second that it's true. I'm not naive. I've been alive for far too long to believe that something so idealistic could ever be possible. I don't believe for a second that my colonies will live to see a world without war. That's nonsense. That's a fucking fairytale. And if I'm being honest, maybe it's better they don't.

I hate seeing Canada fight on the Western Front, fighting a war that he could have easily avoided if he wasn't bound to do England's bidding. A part of me knows that it's good for colonies to experience war, the good and the bad. In a sick, twisted way, this war couldn't have come at a better time for colonies (excuse me, _countries_ ) like Canada, because it's an experience they need to suffer in order to learn and grow, and I'm happy for him. I know what it feels like to finally earn recognition and respect for your own achievements and not have to share those victories with an overlord—a father, or partner, or master—and because of that, I wouldn't deny it for Canada (and Australia, and New Zealand, and all of the others). As nations, it's good for them. But as former-colonies, as children? As _my_ child? The bigger part of me can't stand to see children fighting in this horrific war. I think: _How could anyone do this to them_? I look at them and I think: _They're all too young_ _for this_! even though I was younger than them on my first campaign. I look at Canada and I know that he's technically over one-thousand-years-old as a nation, but as a country he's young, and as a human he's young. In human-years he's only fifteen-years-old.

Fifteen.

If he were mortal, he wouldn't be old enough to enlist in his own army. And Australia and New Zealand are even younger.

I look at England—the proud imperial lion surrounded by his cubs—and I think: _You're a fucking bastard._

A child should never have to fight his parent's battles.

Then I look at Iceland. _My_ Iceland.

I think of the last century—the last millennia—and my heart grows heavy with the weight of shame.

Eventually I realize how tired I am, too. It's not just Dan whom this war has taken its toll on. It's all of us. It's me, too. It makes me proud and angry (mostly angry) to see my children subjected to such horrors; and it makes Dan depressed to stand back and watch the family he loves fight. When Netherlands' neutrality is ignored by Germany and he's made to suffer for _not_ taking part in the brutality and bloodshed, Dan finally stops watching the conflict and locks himself away inside his house, pretending not to see and not to feel.

Looking back, that first world war really tore the Germanic family apart, perhaps more than any other family in Europe. It hurt them all.

* * *

 **FINLAND**

 **1917**

 **ST. PETERSBURG**

RUN!" Lithuania screams.

I watch in horror as Prussia grabs the back of Lithuania's coat and yanks him off his feet. He crashes against Prussia's chest, flailing like mad—twisting and punching and kicking—but Prussia is too powerful. He beats my poor housemate into submission, then sweeps Lithuania up and throws him over his shoulder like a hefty sack of potatoes. " _Poland_!" Lithuania yells, " _Poland_ , _help me_!" But Poland is in no position to help anyone. His fragile figure is lying on his back on the ground, unconscious, his fair hair matted with blood. " _No_ , _no_ —!" Lithuania pleads. " _Let go of me_!" He starts to sob when Russia appears, a metal pipe in his hand, murder in his eyes. He repeats Lithuania's cry: " _Let go of him_ , _Prussia_! _Lithuania belongs to me_!" Russia swings at Prussia, who dodges and strikes back. Lithuania is jostled. He squeezes his eyes shut in defeat, clenching fistfuls of Prussia's jacket, and repeats over-and-over: " _Leave me alone_! _All of you_ , _please_ , _just leave me alone_!"

"Finland!" says Estonia hurriedly. He's holding tight to Latvia's hand; Latvia, who's sweet face is bruised and tear-stained.

I feel terrible, but I turn my back on Lithuania and sprint after Estonia and Latvia, the three of us running as fast as we can to escape the fall of the Russian Empire.

It's devastating. I can hear people crying and screaming as I run for the coast. I can hear the Bolsheviks' guns blasting, breaking the tsarist regime. It's red, so red. I run past bourgeois corpses, people that have been ripped from their homes and murdered in the streets. I run past others who are being beaten and handcuffed, dragged off to face a firing-squad or prison. The bloodlust reminds me of my Viking days when we plundered and pillaged with no regard for anything but our own greed. The only difference between then and now is that the Bolsheviks are fighting _against_ greed. They're fighting for a better Russia, a fairer Russia; a Russia who's starving majority can prosper; a Russia for the people, not the aristocracy. When I finally reach the Baltic coast, I cast one last glance over-the-shoulder at Russia and Prussia's struggle, and I see it there on Russia's bloodless face. He's tormented. I've never seen him look so afraid, so shattered, so desperate, so crazed. He attacks Prussia with all of the force and anguish of a man gone insane, and in that moment I actually feel sorry for him. I actually pity my overlord, the man who's made me hate myself for over a century. It's twisted, but this is what the war— _The Great War_ —has done to us.

" _Finland_ , _hurry_!"

I accept the hands that reach down to haul me onto a ship. It's stormy and the ship rocks violently, the Baltic frothing and crashing against the hull. I shiver and huddle in a crowd of my fleeing countrymen as the ship pulls away from the dock, heading west. It's cold and dark and I'm soaked and peppered with hailstones, but the moment I see the lights of Helsinki I feel a warmth spread through me and suddenly I'm happier than I've been in one-hundred years. No, in seven-hundred-years! I'm so happy, I cry. I clap my hands to my mouth and I sink to my knees and bawl like a baby because I'm home.

Finally— _finally_ —I'm home.

* * *

 **22 DECEMBER 1917**

 **HELSINKI**

I sign the official document that decrees my Independence. Then I run.

I laugh and holler and kick up a spray of powdery snow in elated bliss. I feel so, so good. I spin in a circle, my arms flung out, and then I race off again. Sweden's boarder-guard doesn't even flinch as I pass by, too used to seeing me; too blindsided by my giddiness. I take a key out of my pocket, the key he never wanted back, and unlock the front gate of Sweden's favourite house.

" _Åland_!" I shout, flushed and gasping. I trip on the pathway, clumsily catch my balance, and then run faster. " _Åland_ , _where are you_? _I'm here_ , _baby_! _Papa's here_!"

A beautiful five-year-old pokes his gold head cautiously out of the house, sees me, and his cherub face splits into a glowing smile. " _Papa_!" he shrieks, bounding toward me.

I fall to my knees and catch Åland as he jumps into my arms. I squeeze him and kiss him and cry joyful tears as I rock him back-and-forth; and his laughter sounds like silver bells; and he smells like icy brine and spring flowers. I kiss his head and his rosy, chubby cheeks and his little, pudgy hands, still soft with baby-fat. He has Sweden's looks, Sweden's blue eyes, but my smile and my laugh.

"I'm here, baby," I say, hugging him tightly. "I'm here, and I'm never going to leave again. I promise, Åland, I will _never_ leave you again."

"Fin."

I look up to find Sweden standing a few feet away, watching Åland and I. He looks baffled to see me here, but it doesn't stall him for long. Deliberately, he marches forward and sinks to his knees in the snow beside me, then takes my face in his hands, searching me for signs of injury.

"I heard what happened in Russia after the war— _during_ the war," he says, staring intently at me. "I heard about the Revolution. Fin," he repeats worriedly, "are you okay?"

I nod enthusiastically, eyes flooded with happy tears. "Yes," I say honestly. "Yes, I'm okay. I'm free, Ruotsi. Today I was granted my Independence. I'm finally free."

Sweden takes a minute to process my declaration, to acknowledge it, but as soon as the shock recedes from his face it's replaced with an indulgent smile. "Congratulations, Fin," he says in support. He kisses my cheek, then my lips. "No one deserves it more than you. I'm so proud of you."

"Thank-you."

My voice is a soft whisper of disbelief, because I think he really means it, and that means more to me than anything. I lean up—Åland still pressed to my chest, stuck between us now—and kiss Sweden's lips. And it's perfect. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close, up onto his lap, and I'm still holding my son—our son—as he kisses me like he hasn't kissed me in years, in decades, in centuries. It's chaste until I open my mouth to him, eager to taste his tongue, which tastes like spearmint and the sharp bite of vodka in its purest form. His skin is cool, but his lips get hot as mine harass them, sliding across and pressing down in a back-and-forth struggle that can only be described as reckless. " _I love you_ ," I gasp between fervent kisses. " _I love you. I love you_. _I love you._ "

"I love you, too, Fin."

Eventually, we get up and dust powdered snow off of ourselves, but we don't part. I hold Åland aloft, his little legs dangling, and Sweden wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"Come on, sweetheart," I say to Åland, kissing his nose. I look at Sweden, who glances briefly eastward, then smiles at me, as if to say: _I'll walk you back._ I, too, look to my homeland and I can see the turmoil of political unrest. I can feel the onslaught of an ugly Civil War, but there's strength as well. There's unity, despite the factions vying for power. There's a shared feeling of relief, as if a weight has been lifted, as if a fire has suddenly been rekindled. I look at my homeland and I see a future free of tyranny and oppression. For the first time in a long, long, long time, I look at my homeland and see a dark, desolate nation full of renewed hope.

I smile, and say: "It's time to go home."

* * *

 **DENMARK**

 **1920s , 1930s**

I survived. _We_ survived. By some fucking miracle, all of my family survived The Great War. None of us are unscathed, but we're all alive.

I'm so relieved, I think I might fucking cry. Even though the _Peace_ Treaty of Versailles has crippled Germany and Prussia—humiliated them, bankrupted them, broken them—at least they're alive. They, of course, feel otherwise about the outcome. I'm not invited to the peace conference, but I see Germany and Prussia afterward. I see them, but I don't go near them, because they both look like lit fucking grenades. They're _pissed_. I also see England and France, and they're euphoric. I bet they fucked each other blind right on the conference table, right on those documents that declared them the victors of the biggest conflict in history. I know that France and Prussia have been friends for a long time, but it's going to take a lot of coaxing from middleman Spain this time to patch up the rift they've torn between them. Though, Spain is facing his own problems right now. Civil Wars are fucking ugly.

The important thing is, we're all alive. I'm alive. Norge is alive—and he's pregnant again (and horny as fuck).

* * *

 **COPENHAGEN**

 _Nn—uh_ , _Dan—A-ah_!"

Norge falls back into a brace of soft pillows and I collapse on the mattress beside him. I'll never get tired of fucking him. He'll never fail to excite me. Never. I shift closer to him, skin-to-skin, and press a tender kiss to his bare shoulder, tasting sweat. His lips kiss my temple in reply. I can feel his cool, fluttering breath, still a bit uneven. Then I tilt my head and smile at him and he smiles at me and we share a slow kiss before an exhausted silence settles over us.

Over the past couple decades I've lived for these quiet, comfortable moments, with literally nothing but love between us. _Finally_. Norge had been cold to me for so long, I was afraid that we'd never recover. I was afraid (afraid to even consider) that we were done being together for good, as partners, lovers, friends, brothers—everything—and it nearly destroyed me. Then The Great War happened and, weirdly, that's what saved us. As soon as the Allies declared victory, Norge was at my door, in my arms, and in my bed. It was frantic and urgent and desperate and passionate. We barely spoke, but we didn't need to. We've never really spoken with words.

He said: "I'm sorry, Dan."

I said: "I'm sorry, too. About everything. I love you, Norge."

And that was it.

Doubtless, everyone thinks his twentieth-century pregnancy is my doing, but it's not. Norge has always given birth, established new colonies, new settlements, on his own. I've just been lucky enough to be by his side five of the eight times.

I kiss his neck, then his jaw, and whisper: "I love when you're pregnant."

He barely reacts, typical.

"Do you?" he asks, feigning disinterest.

"Uh huh." I tease his earlobe with my teeth. "It makes you _insatiable_."

I'm thanked with a sudden jab to my ribs, which pulls a winded " _Oof—_!" out of me, but Norge is smiling, the Lights in his violet eyes glowing.

"Got a name yet?" I ask, laying my head down on his chest, listening to the heartbeat of his unborn colony. (I think this is _actually_ my favourite part of Norge's pregnancies, listening to the evidence that a new life is being born.)

Norge is thoughtfully quiet for a minute, then he says: "Svalbard."

* * *

And this one?" I ask, because Norge is pregnant _again_. (Again, not mine.)

Norge is rocking Svalbard, who's the whitest baby I've ever seen in my life. And that includes Prussia. There isn't a lick of colour in this kid, not even rosy cheeks; even his eyes are pale, pale grey. "He looks like someone dipped him in flour," I said the first time I saw him, though Norge didn't agree with—or appreciate—that comment, and I had to quickly add: "In a cute way, of course!" But he's a real nice baby, a very quiet baby. I've never once heard him cry, which is a nice change, since all of Norge's other babies screamed the first time I held them. Norge is rocking Svalbard to sleep, pacing slowly back-and-forth in my bedroom, because we're both staying in my house tonight. Even though we're not married anymore, he spends a lot of time in my house, because: a) we're friends and lovers again; and b) his colonies still live here with me. He pauses briefly to see me gesture to where his ninth baby is taking shape.

"Jan Mayan," he replies.

I frown. "Did you just make that up on the spot?"

He betrays his cheeky spontaneity in an over-the-shoulder smirk that makes me want to tackle him in a sexy way, which I don't, obviously, because he's holding an infant.

A rap sounds at the bedchamber door then, followed by Iceland's toneless voice: "Are you two having sex?"

"Not at the moment," I call as Iceland pushes the door open, "but I can remedy that if you want to take the little one." I grin, bobbing my head at Svalbard and then wiggling my eyebrows at Norge.

(Huh. Norge and Iceland have the exact same "fuck you" look. I've never noticed that before. Like father like son, I guess.)

Iceland already looks ageless, but he's only sixteen in human-years. He's standing in the doorway, afraid to step into my bedchamber. He's got his arms crossed and his hip cocked, a bored look on his pretty face. _Pft_ , teenagers.

Iceland, Faroe, and Greenland all still live with me. Once I lived in a house full of cute little ankle-biters; now I live in a house full of pre-pubescent rebellion. At sixteen, Iceland looks the eldest; he grew faster than the others did thanks to the innovations of the twentieth-century. Faroe is fourteen, and Greenland is ten. It's taken all three of them a really long time to develop. Sometimes I wonder if they'll ever grow into adults, or stay kids forever. That's the tricky thing about us nations; aging and developing are two different things. My stepsons are all over a thousand-years-old, but Faroe still won't eat his vegetables unless bribed; Greenland is still—secretly, but we all know—afraid of the dark; and Iceland—

" _Pft_ , I'm surprised I've only got seven nephews, the way you two go at it."

—can be such a snarky little shit sometimes.

(God, I love that kid. I'll be sad when he decides to leave.)

In reply, Norge hands sleeping Svalbard to Iceland, a suggestive glint in his violet eyes.

" _Seriously_?" Iceland deadpans, annoyed.

Norge grins. "Seriously." And he shuts Iceland out of the bedchamber.

"I hope you get a venereal disease!" he calls from the other side, then stomps off.

Norge is chuckling as I come up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. "Are you ever going to tell him the truth?" I ask. "Or are you going to let him think he's your little brother forever?"

Neither of us knows why Iceland thinks he's Norge's younger brother instead of his son, but it's our fault he still does, because we've never corrected him.

"Maybe someday," Norge says softly. (It's been his reply for centuries.)

I feel bad, because it always makes him a little bit sad, but it's short-lived guilt. Norge turns in my arms and presses his body against mine, chest-to-chest, groin-to-groin, grinding his hips against me. I can feel the heartbeat of his unborn colony—the island, Jan Mayan—and the pale heat of his flawless skin. His lips are full and soft and ripe for kissing, which I do, smiling down as he tips his head up.

"Now?" I ask, teasing him.

His violet eyes flash hungrily (horny as fuck). " _Now_."

* * *

 **FINLAND**

 **HELSINKI**

 _BANG_!

I lower my rifle and grin. _Bulls-eye._ The target is still swinging fifty paces away, a hole shining sunlight right through the centre.

I reload and fire again, again, again. Each time I aim at a farther target. My hands are steady and my eyes are open as I lift the barrel and adjust my aim half an inch to the right. I exhale slowly, my breath visible in the cold. My finger gently squeezes the trigger. Hold. _Fire_!

"Nice shot," says Sweden.

He's been waiting for me to finish, standing there silent as a ghost—at a safe distance. A respectful distance so as not to disturb my concentration, but I knew he was there, waiting patiently. I'd sensed his entry into my country, his swift approach, but his presence is so familiar to me and my land that I didn't feel the need to interrupt my target practice to greet him. In fact, I like when Sweden watches me shoot. I like knowing that his lovely sea-blue eyes are on me, captivated by me. I always shoot best when he's watching, like I'm subconsciously trying to impress him. Maybe I am.

I lower the rifle, switch on the safety, turn to Sweden, and smile.

"Thanks," I say, accepting the compliment and the positive feelings that flood me.

(I know that I'm a good shot—the best sniper I know, in fact. But my pride pales in comparison to Sweden's approval. One complimentary word from him and I feel myself glowing, even after all this time.)

Sweden doesn't question _why_ I'm practicing my marksmanship as if my life depended on it. He doesn't ask because he knows that, with the tension brewing in Europe, _again_ , my life _might_ depend on it. And soon. He doesn't make the same mistake he did a few years ago when he found me practicing:

"Don't be afraid, Fin," he said. "Whatever happens, I'll protect you. I'll be better this time, stronger. I'll—"

That's where I interrupted him. I placed a finger on his lips and felt them close. "No," I said seriously. "You don't protect me, not anymore. _I_ protect me, now. If this past century has taught me anything, it's that I can take care of myself. I _need_ to take care of myself. I've lived under someone else's laws and protection for much too long. But," I added, noticing his crestfallen expression, "that doesn't mean I don't want you with me. I just want you to stand beside me, Ruotsi, not in front of me."

"I would marry you," he said earnestly. "If you asked me right now, Fin, I'd marry you for real."

But I didn't ask, and neither did he.

I simply smiled and kissed his cheek, and said: "I know."

It's what I didn't know I wanted once, but not anymore. Now, it's enough to know that he _wants_ me, truly. That he loves me.

I take the hand Sweden presents me and we walk back through the forest together. His hands are strong and scarred. His fingers are long and thick, but they're no longer the hands of a warrior. Now they're the huge hands of a craftsman. They're still strong—stronger now than ever, perhaps—but they're gentle, too. As we walk, I squeeze his hand and he grips mine tighter in reply. He knows it won't hurt me. He knows he can't break me, not anymore. He still worries, though. He's a worrier by nature, to be honest. But the confidence of my hold tells him he no longer has to be worried for me.

I know that Sweden is worried about the state of Europe. He doesn't say so, but I can see stress-lines on his handsome face. Lines that weren't there before the turmoil of The Great War. He's afraid that _the war to end all wars_ was only a prelude for what's coming, and I agree. All of Europe's greatest powers—or, all of Europe's _once_ greatest powers—are weary and exhausted. They're all holding their breath, I can feel it. Everyone is cautious and suspicious of each other. England is anxious, taut as a drawn bowstring. France is terrified. He tries to hide it, but his hands always shake. They're afraid they made a mistake at the Paris Peace Conference. They _know_ they did, but there's nothing they can do about it now. (And even if there was, I doubt they would. England and France have never been historically self-repentant.)

I overheard them talking recently. It was by accident. They didn't see me, and I didn't announce myself when I saw France suddenly take England's hands. It's better not to interrupt England and France in private if it can be helped. France's voice was desperate when he said:

" _Marry me_."

Only England's eyes betrayed him. They grew larger in disbelief, soft and sad. But the rest of him remained unmoved. France squeezed his hands, but England's reply was definitive:

"No."

France brought England's hands to his lips and kissed them. "Please, England," he begged. "I-I-I don't know what's going to happen to me. The Germans, they..." He was shaking badly. "I think they really might kill me. I need you, England. Let's be strong together, okay? Let's face them together, like before. If we get married, we can—"

"France," England interrupted. His voice was even, but there was pain in his eyes. A kind of pain I've never seen in him before. "I won't marry you, but I promise," he continued before France could protest, "no matter what happens, I will be your ally. I will defend you. I will never..." pause, deep breath "...abandon you."

A tear rolled down France's cheek. He nodded, then let go of England's hands and instead pulled the green-eyed man into a fierce hug. " _Promise_?" he whispered, so soft I barely heard it.

England hesitated, then wrapped his arms firmly around France. "I promise."

None of us really like England and France after everything they've done, but it's hard not to feel sympathetic when I see them together like that. Scared.

But they're not the only ones.

It's hard not to pity Spain, too. Spain—once England's meanest rival; the great and terrifying Conquistador—is recovering from a nasty Civil War that's crippled him.

And the Italians, who are being bullied by their own politicians. They may have inherited Rome's legacy, but outside of religion the poor things are hopeless at international politics. The Allies still whisper: " _Cowards. Defectors. Traitors_ ," when they see Italy and Romano.

And the Low Countries siblings, who have been signing contracts to try and protect their defenceless lands, still trying to heal from the last total conflict that destroyed their people and homes.

And Poland, who's become little more than a wraith, a ghost of his former self as he wanders aimless through the country that no longer belongs to him; the country that Prussia and Russia have torn apart. (France's trembling is nothing compared to the fits of anguish that seize Poland.)

And Austria and Hungary, whose marriage is slowly breaking. We all hear them screaming at each other, but pretend we don't.

And so, so many of the central nations, who are too young to influence their prejudice elders. Nationalism. How can a word that symbolizes something so unifying be used to justify acts of such intolerable hate?

And then there's Russia, my former overlord. Despite everything he's done for me, I still can't think of him without feeling uncomfortable. I pity what happened to him. There hasn't been such a bloody revolt since the French Revolution. But now that I'm free, I'm finally free to hate him. Hindsight should make me forgive him, but the reality of it is I can finally hate him for everything he did to me; for everything he made me do; for everything he took from me that I can never get back. ( _I hate him_! _I hate him_! _I hate him_!) I'm free of him, but I still can't forgive him. I still wake in the night gasping and crying and screaming, and it's all because of him. He's still my neighbour and trade ally, so I'll work with him. I'll be civil and polite. My society and economy will move on like nothing has happened, but it'll be a long time before my heart can forgive him. _If_ it ever does. Oh, Russia. Despite The Great War, he's carried on like he always has. His bones—his people—are still so strong, still so unbreakable. His nation's new leader is cruel, an unyielding isolationist that has closed Russia off from everyone, and my once proud overlord has been withdrawn into himself, like he's hunkering down and preparing for the worst, like everyone else.

Everyone except for the Germans. I don't know how—none of us do—but Germany and Prussia have pulled themselves out of poverty faster than anyone could have predicted. In a few short decades they've regained their former strength. No, they've doubled it; tripled it. They've become world leaders of industry. They've stabilized their economy. They've cut their unemployment rate. They've rejoined the world of international affairs. They've become indispensible to their allies. And they've instilled a fierce pride in their population that, honestly, frightens me a little. I don't know how, but they've managed to repair what The Great War broke. They've used that horrible experience to make themselves stronger, better. And they _are_ better. Instead of clinging to the past, Germany has embraced all that the twentieth-century has to offer. He's become a man of modern ideals and innovation. (Prussia... Prussia worries me.) The Germans have managed to put everything behind them—except the anger. They're both angry as hell. And they blame it on the Allies. It's no wonder England is anxious. It's no wonder France is scared, because sooner or later the Germans are going to strike. I don't know how, and I don't know when. It might be a year from now; it might be one-hundred years from now, but sooner or later they'll have their revenge.

And they're not the only ones who want it.

Sooner or later, someone is going to break. I don't know who or when or how, but if we—Europe, the whole world—don't do something to avert crisis, then it's going to be even worse than before.

"Why do you think that?" Sweden asks when I tell him.

I shrug. "I don't know, it's just a feeling." A strong feeling, but I don't detail it to Sweden. "The Paris Peace Conference caused more problems than it solved. I think we can all agree on that," I state boldly. "And the League of Nations has failed. That's what happens when you let a couple dictate the terms of armistice for everyone." He knows that I'm talking about England and France (and I'm using _couple_ in every sense of the word). "They— _we_ —all need to accept that the world is changing. Power doesn't mean empire anymore. Now it means internal strength and stability. Spain, Russia, Turkey... How many more need to suffer before we accept each other as equals and not states and colonies, or conquests, or rivals? How long are we going to continue to fight each other because of petty differences?"

Sweden's reply is a gentle, hopeless smile. "I don't know, Fin.

"Do you really believe that unity is possible?" he asks after a long stretch of pensive silence.

I'm quiet for a moment before I admit: "I _want_ to believe it is. Just because something has never happened before doesn't mean it isn't possible."

Sweden looks down at me and smiles bigger, as if I've said something especially endearing. "I love you, Fin," he says out-of-the-blue.

Since our discussion concerns warfare, I'm taken aback by his sudden confession, so it takes me a moment to respond:

"I love you, too, Ruotsi."

"Come on," I say, brightening. I squeeze his hand and start to walk faster. "Norway had another baby. Let's go and see him. There's nothing more hopeful in times of crisis then the promise of new life."

Sweden's long legs match my pace. "Will Denmark be there?" he asks, the barest hint of a pout on his face. It's such a little thing, but it makes me feel lighter.

I cock my head and pierce him with a rhetorical look. "What do you think? Norway just had a baby," I repeat, grinning. " _Of course_ Denmark will be there."

* * *

 **NORWAY**

 **OSLO**

 _Fly_ , _little bird_!" Dan calls as he throws Svalbard up a couple feet, then catches him again. Svalbard shrieks and laughs, his pale eyes aglow with excitement. Dan tosses him up again, then swings him in a wide arc as he spins around in the drawing-room. He steps over Faroe, who's sprawled on his stomach on the floor, reading; and passes by Greenland, who watches his stepfather and little brother with jealous eyes, knowing that he's too big now—too old—to be tossed around like a toddler. Sweden notices this and distracts Greenland with licorice, and suddenly Greenland feels special again. (" _Thank-you_ , _Uncle Sweden_!") I frown disapprovingly at Sweden. _Bribery_? I silently ask. He shrugs and gently pats Greenland's jet-black hair. Frankly, I'm surprised Åland isn't spoiled rotten. Sweden is a surprisingly indulgent parent, comparable to—but less materialistic than—France. I roll my eyes at him, then continue onward to the couch and hand Iceland one of the two coffees I'm carrying. He takes it, sips it, and sighs in contentment like a true Nordic. I place Finland's coffee on a table beside him, because he has no hands to spare. He's rocking little Jan Mayan, who's fast-asleep. I lift Åland onto my lap and sit down next to Finland. Åland's face is contorted in concentration as he tries without luck to open the puzzle-box Sweden made for him. ( _Uncle_ Norway he calls me now, not _Papa_.)

 _This is really nice_ , I think, surveying the comfortable living-space. My house isn't as big as Dan's, or as lavish as Sweden's, but it's cozy. _We haven't all been together like this in so long._

I look back at Finland and wonder if he'll ever have more children. He's a picture of paternal affection as he smiles down at Jan Mayan, and I think it's a shame that he and Sweden don't have more colonies, since they're both such devoted parents. But I suppose the Age of Colonization is long past, now. Colonies who were once the children of Empires now have States and Provinces and Territories of their own. Five-hundred-years ago Empires were birthing, adopting, and conquering colonies all over the world, but twentieth-century births are uncommon.

Germany lost all control of his facial muscles and gaped at me when he learnt of Svalbard and Jan Mayan's births. "Norway, you're pregnant _again—_?" he sputtered in disbelief. I was a little put-off by his judgement, but Dan thought it was hilarious. Though, I suppose I _am_ a little old to be establishing new colonies.

I haven't seen much of Germany lately, but the last time I did he didn't look good. He looked tired, stressed.

There's a blunt knock at the door and, after exchanging a look with Dan— _I'm not expecting company_ —I rise swiftly to answer it.

 _Speak of the devil_ , I think, coming face-to-face with Prussia and Germany. (Or rather, face-to-throat with the pair, since I'm half-a-head shorter than they.)

Åland ducks in fear of the Germans and buries his face in the crook of my neck. Prussia's blood-red eyes flick analytically from my face to the child on my hip and back, and I instinctively lay a hand over Åland's head to shield him, because Prussia's gaze is hungry. He's looking at Åland, but he's not seeing the archipelago as a child; he's seeing a military instillation.

"Is Denmark here?" he asks without a greeting. "There's something we need to discuss with him."

"So urgently?" I ask, reminding them that this is my house, not my parliament. "It's Sunday," I add crisply. I indicate Åland to imply the other colonies. "My family is here—"

"I'm not asking, Norway," Prussia interrupts. There's more wolf in his voice than human, and the fact that he still hasn't blinked is starting to make me nervous. Those blood-red eyes are penetrating.

Germany is quiet, but no less stiff.

Slowly, I nod. " _D-Dan_!" I call. I'm ashamed of the way my voice trembles, and the way my body instinctively shrinks back against Dan's chest, seeking support as he comes up behind me. I'm ashamed of, but comforted by the protective hand he places on my shoulder.

"Prussia, Germany," he says, steering me gently back behind him. "To what do I owe this visit on a _Sunday_?" he adds, emphasizing how uncouth their unexpected—uninvited—presence is.

"We need to talk," says Prussia, leaving no room for argument. " _Alone_ ," he stresses, glaring at me.

Dan considers his two cousins, sees the Swastikas on their coats, and nods. To me, he says: "Go back inside, Norge. I won't be long."

It scares me. Dan's curt dismissal scares me. I clutch Åland tighter, but I don't move.

"Norge," he repeats.

I look from the Germans to the Dane and I shake my head. A part of me wants to cower behind Dan; another part wants to leap in front of him to protect him from whatever the Germans want. I don't know what they want, but it can't be good. Prussia and Germany are very formal, they're rule-followers. They're statesmen, politicians. They don't make house-calls on Sundays. Or, they never used to. But now—? I don't like the looks on their faces. Germany looks more tired than last I saw him. There are deep, dark bruises circling his sky-blue eyes (a stormy sky), and a mechanic stiffness to his movements that reminds me of a puppeteer's doll. In contrast, Prussia looks extraordinarily alive, but not in a good way. His red eyes bleed hunger, as if he's been starved. I look at them and a horrible fear grips me, and I think suddenly that if they take Dan with them now I'll never see him again.

Prussia utters an impatient noise that sounds like a growl.

"Norge," Dan orders, "go back inside.

"Please."

It's the _please_ that finally gets me. It's the plea in his blue eyes that's afraid for me, that wants to protect me. It's the earnest look that says: _Trust me_ , _Norge_.

Wordlessly, I retreat.

Dan follows Prussia and Germany to a secluded part of my property beside the woodpile, and I return to the drawing-room to find seven worrying faces staring back at me. The colonies have all crowded around Finland on the couch, Iceland included, and Sweden is pacing the floor in front of them like a guard-dog. He takes Åland from me, and it's only then I realize I'm shaking like a reindeer calf.

"What's going on?" he asks.

"I don't know."

My voice is steady, but I must look shocked because Iceland comes to my side, his coffee abandoned. He lays a tentative hand on my back. It's cold, but the gentle pressure whispers concern.

"Prussia and Germany are here. I don't know why. They're talking with Dan. I don't know what about. They don't look good." I'm talking in fractured sentences, but I can't help it. Something in Prussia's gaze has frightened me more than anything has in centuries. And the lack of something in Germany's makes me think that whatever horror is coming has already begun. "I don't think they're okay,"' I report. "I think something is wrong with them, very wrong. I think they're sick. I think Prussia and Germany are very, _very_ sick. S-Something bad is going to happen," I say, losing my voice to shaking.

Iceland rubs my back.

Greenland asks: "Papa?" I'm scaring him. I'm scaring them all, but maybe we _should_ be scared.

I want to hold them and soothe them and promise to protect them all from whatever is coming, but I don't. I can't. So when my lips part, it's a single frightened whisper that seeps out:

" _Dan_."

"Stay here," says Sweden's deep voice. He sits Åland down beside Svalbard, then leaves without a backwards glance.

Iceland leads me to the couch and I sit between he and Finland. It's quiet in the drawing-room, so quiet I can hear the beat of my own pounding heart. How much longer will it beat for, I wonder? I've never taken for granted my immortality until now, but there's something in Prussia and Germany that screams annihilation. Their burning hate and determination— _desperation_ —is so thick, it's nearly tangible. I can feel it. The colonies can feel it too, but they don't make a sound, as if muteness can save them, even though they're too young to understand why they're scared. Too young and afraid to ask why _I'm_ scared.

Finally, Finland's careful voice breaks the silence. He says: "Norja, what did you see?"

" _Fear_ ," I whisper the truth. "I saw so much fear."

* * *

 **SWEDEN**

I stay hidden. I don't want to give Prussia or Germany any reason to label me as an enemy, but I'm afraid that's what I already am. I don't like those armbands they wear. They're black and white and red and look like murder. I don't like the way they barge into other people's lives and demand attention: submission. I don't like the entitled looks on their faces, or the privileged gait of their march, or the superior tilt of their heads. I don't like how they corner Denmark to speak to him, blocking his chances of escape. Prussia's posture is deceptively friendly as he speaks. It's confident and trusting. But Germany and Denmark are rigid: Germany because he looks made of metal; Denmark because he's on-guard. The Dane is straight-backed and tense and his jaw is locked. He's doing the listening, not the talking. I can see his fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the urge to curl into defensive fists. And I can see his boot slowly shifting in the snow. I see these little details because I've learnt to recognize them over the years, the signs that Denmark is about to attack. Only—he doesn't. He wants to attack—I know, because I've fought that look before—but he doesn't move. He stands there and lets Prussia talk at him, and at the close of the lecture the only thing he says is:

"Okay, I'll think about it."

Prussia is unsatisfied. "Do more than think about it," he warns.

I wait for the Germans to leave before revealing myself to Denmark. He's just standing there in the snow like a statue, but I approach him cautiously. I don't know what the Germans want from him, or what he's promised them. I can't know what he's thinking or feeling, because, for once, I can't read his face. It's steely, like Germany's. In this moment, I can't know that he's not my enemy, too. Maybe that's why I say:

"Brother?"

Denmark stalks toward me, rapidly closing the distance between us. He doesn't relax his guard. He grabs my shoulder and clenches it hard. I can feel the strength of his hand digging into my muscles. Still so strong, even after all these years. His voice is low and urgent when he says:

"Sweden."

He finally lifts his gaze to meet mine and all I see is pain.

"I need you to do something for me."


	6. Part Six

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **WINTER FRIENDS**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have no good excuse for the delay. I beg your forgiveness, dear readers. And hope you enjoy the much belated update of this tragic tale. :)

* * *

 **PART SIX**

 **DENMARK**

 **1939–1945**

 **COPENHAGEN**

C _ome on_ , _come on_!" I urge, herding a crowd of shivering people onto a boat. It's not a large boat and it's already over-occupied, but I don't care. I push and shove at them, too urgent to be delicate. It's pissing down rain, but I don't care about that either. The curtain of it shields what I'm doing. All I care about is loading my fucking boats with as many war refugees as possible. All I care about is emptying my country of _undesirables_. Jews. Gypsies. Slavs. Communists. Cripples. Anyone whose skin isn't white enough to appease the Nazis. The list goes on and on. They all have to leave before the Third Reich descends upon me and closes my borders for good. They all have to escape before they can't.

" _Sweden_!" I shout, waving overhead. He's standing at his border, waiting to receive the boats I've packed like sardine tins. He waves in reply.

The boats set out across the choppy Øresund Straight and I breathe an exhausted sigh of short-lived relief. Then I'm running again. I'm sprinting through the streets of Copenhagen, combing the city for anyone I've missed. It hurts to know I won't be able to save them all, but I don't let fear or heartache slow me. I push hurriedly into houses and shops, desperately scanning the empty spaces before moving on. As I race back-and-forth like a gasping madman, I feel guilty about everyone who I'm forcing out. I'm Denmark, I'm their home. I should be able to protect them, but I can't. That's why they need to leave. I hope they understand. I pray to God they understand that this is the only thing I can do for them. Sweden can do more. Sweden and Norway and the Allies can do what I can't, because I won't let what happened to Poland and to the Low Countries happen to me. If surrendering to the Germans is what I have to do to spare my country from the pain and suffering and death of invasion, then that's what I'll do.

 _Coward_! _You're a fucking coward_ , _Denmark_!

But I don't regret it, because I know I can't defeat Nazi Germany. ( _God_ , _can anyone_?)I know I can't fight the devilish thing that's poisoned my cousins and corrupted them from the inside-out. If I betrayed the Third Reich and joined the Allies now, Prussia and Germany would kill me.

I can't let that happen. I have a responsibility to my people—to my history—to live.

I'm Denmark.

I have to survive.

* * *

 **NORWAY**

 **9 APRIL 1940**

 **OSLO**

My hands shake, but I stand my ground as Prussia and Germany approach. They're wearing smart, long overcoats and caps with polished badges. An entourage of uniformed Nazis follow them. Prussia is grinning; Germany is not.

"Hello, gorgeous," Prussia says to me, cocking his head. His fair hair has lost its silver shine; now it looks like ash. He eyes my rifle and chuckles. "Kind of a chilly welcome, don't you think?"

I don't reply.

"Okay," he nods. He closes the distance between us, making my soldiers tense and my heart pound. "I think you're misunderstanding why we're here. We don't want to hurt you, Norway."

"You didn't want to hurt England either," I counter.

"No," Prussia hesitantly admits. "But England made his choice. And at the end of every day, England always chooses France. _He_ declared war on _us_. But it won't be like that with you, Norway. Because we're not here to hurt you. We're here to help you. We're here to protect your neutrality from the Allies."

"I don't need your _help_."

Prussia feigns sympathy as he scans my city, my people. "Norway," he says, in what he must think is a gentle tone. "I don't think you really understand your position, geographically and politically. You shouldn't have divorced Denmark and Sweden, because now you don't have them to protect you. Do you really think you can prevent England from walking in and taking over your ports and mines on your own?" He shakes his head. "Let me help you," he says, switching to a singular pronoun that makes me nervous. "I didn't lie." He raises his gloved hand and grazes my cheek. His voice is a bit husky when he says: "You really are beautiful. Such pretty purple eyes.

"Come with me." He lowers his hand to offer me in partnership.

For a single, brief moment, I honestly consider taking it. For a split-second I see a sliver of the Prussia I used to know, whose priority was always protecting those he loved. In his unblinking eyes, I see a genuine desire to save me from what he believes is a threat; a threat he has made it his mission to destroy. In that brief moment, he really does care about me. But when I don't take his hand, when I remain stiff and unforthcoming, the compassion flees his face and his tone hardens. He sighs, and says:

"I really wanted you as an ally, Norway. I wanted your support. But if, for the sake of the future, I have to use force, I will. I need the use of your ports and mines, so I can't risk the Allies seizing you and blockading my efforts. I'm afraid you're too valuable an industrial resource, sweetheart," he says, but it's no longer a term-of-endearment. Now, his belittling words mock me. "We both know you can't stand against me, so what's going to happen is inevitable. My Wehrmacht is going to occupy your homeland. My Reichskommissariat Norwegen will take over civil rule, relieving Haakon VII of his kingship. Your ports, shipyards, factories, fisheries, farms, and mines will all come under my direct jurisdiction, and you will do trade with no one except for Germany.

"Believe me when I say it's for your own good," Prussia lies. "If you don't rebel, I won't hurt you. I don't think of you as my enemy, Norway. I want you to be a part of my vision for a better future. I want to use your body to breed a new generation."

I sincerely hope he means my geographic-body, but I'm honestly not sure.

"Norway?"

I don't speak. I can't. I'm too angry, too scared.

Prussia glances back at Germany, whose steely eyes are fixed on my city, open but unseeing.

"Last chance," Prussia warns, offering me his hand again. "We can do this the easy way... or the hard way, it's your choice."

I swallow and clench my rifle in white-knuckled fists, because I know what's coming, and I know how much it's going to hurt. But in 1905 I swore to myself I would never again serve someone else. I am my own country, now. I will not bow to anyone, not even Nazi Germany. Not without a fight.

I lift my head and meet Prussia's blood-red gaze, and say: "Nothing is easy in the north."

* * *

Those six words seal my fate.

A day later, my country's armed resistance to the German invasion is forced to an abrupt end. The power—it's not strength; this regime is powerful, but not strong—of Nazi Germany is beyond anything that I've ever faced. The raw adrenaline in their assault overwhelms me, and I barely have time to smuggle my government and royal family out before Germany's puppets take over.

"Where can we go to escape this injustice?" they ask. "Where in Europe is safe?"

I agree that nowhere is safe, but some places are _safer_. Some places still have strength—real strength, not the poison that fuels the Germans. "Go to London," I say, hoping, praying, that England will give my leaders sanctuary.

He does.

I receive a message that says my government will continue to operate in exile.

He also asks, again, if I'll reconsider and lend my (considerable) merchant fleet to England for the transport of British goods, and send my navy to join the blockade against the Germans, but it's too little too late, now. I refused before in order to protect myself and my neutrality. Foolish, really, to think that I _could_ stay neutral with England and Germany salivating over my homeland.

"Better it's me than Nazi Germany," England had argued. He didn't think I had the ability to defend myself from invasion, and I didn't want to admit that he was right. "Please, Norway, we can defend the Atlantic together. I'll help you if you help me," he said, looking fleetingly like a friend.

But he's not a friend. Not mine, at least. And his words were steeped in ulterior motives.

France. It's always for France. If England can redirect Germany's attention northward, putting Sweden and I at risk instead, then perhaps France can be saved. England will use us as cannon-fodder to protect France. And I can't even blame him, because I'd do the same if our positions were switched and it was _my_ loved one in danger. I wouldn't hesitate either. Prussia may be cruel, but he's not wrong: England has always and will always choose France.

A day, that's all it takes.

In twenty-four hours the Germans have effortlessly destroyed everything I've built for myself, and as I escape with my defeated army into the north, retreating into the wilderness, I can't help thinking they were right. Prussia and England were right. I can't do this alone.

 _Dan_ , I think as the spring snows engulf me. _Sweden_.

I make a last stand at Narvik. I stand on the coast; the city at my back, the threat at my front. I can hear the juggernaut of Germany's war machine getting closer. I can feel it. It shakes my nerves, my bones. It makes me more afraid than I've been in centuries, because this time I'm all alone. It's been a long, long time since I've fought all alone, not since I was a reckless youth; a fearless youth. But I'm not fearless anymore.

I see a battleship on the horizon. A fleet of ships.

I clutch my rifle as the wind whips my hair, tugs my clothes. _Is this the end of me_? I wonder. _Will I cease to be Norway after the Germans swallow my nation_?

 _Well_ , _if that's the case_ —I raise the rifle— _I'm not going down without a fight._

I brace myself for a field of flapping Swastikas.

But what I see instead are Union Jacks.

I clap a hand to my mouth in shocked disbelief. The rifle falls from my hands as I fall to my knees.

" _England_."

England disembarks his flagship and approaches me; reaches down for me; pulls me up and smiles at me. He doesn't say a word, but he squeezes my hand in comradeship.

And just like that, I'm not alone.

* * *

 **FINLAND**

 **HELSINKI**

I'm at war with Russia.

Since the 1917 Revolution, he's changed his official title to the Soviet Union, but it's a fractured mask. He's still the same Russia, still the man—the massive nation—who's been my tormentor, my nightmare, my cruel villain for as long as I can remember. For centuries we've fought the same tired battles over-and-over again; the same challenges and risks, and all for the same core reasons. My Independence was supposed to put an end to the animosity between us, but it's only fueled his ire. I see that now. I was blinded by hope before, but now I can see his greed for what it is, for what it's always been. And now I'm fighting against him again—new decade, same struggle—as if nothing at all has changed.

This isn't what I wanted when Sweden and I spoke of the future. These feelings aren't what I want, even now.

I'm lying on my stomach on a deserted rooftop, my sniper-rifle ready to fire at the barest sign of movement below. I aim for the callus, conniving man who signed a neutrality pact with Nazi Germany—the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact—which secretly included a clause concerning _me_ ; a clause that promised _me_ to Russia's influence.

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

I wanted to scream when I discovered this pact, this plot, because I do _not_ belong to Russia anymore, and the world is supposed to know that. I am not Russia's to command or to barter over with Nazi Germany, or anyone else. I am an Independent nation, and the fact that factions of Russia's government _still_ can't accept that is irksome at best and infuriating at worst. The audacity of he and megalomaniac Prussia, thinking so little of me that they didn't even invite me to be a part of the negotiations! I might never have discovered their agreement and secret intentions if my agents hadn't uncovered it. My explosive reaction had scared my people, but, inside, they understood. They could feel my rage and shared it.

" _They think I'm nothing_!" I seethed. " _My Independence doesn't even register for them_! _They think that I'm nothing but Sweden's ex-partner_ , _Russia's Grand Duchy_!

"Um, _excuse me_! Can you people not _see_ me?" From my icy boarders, I waved my arms frantically at the two large, dangerous figures of Russia and Prussia, but neither of them acknowledged my presence.

I immediately demanded to speak with Russia, something I've had legal rights to do ever since 1917, but the actuality of it filled me with trepidation. Even now, I'm not yet accustomed to facing him as an equal, and his size and unnervingly cryptic stare still rattle me, though I try to conceal it.

The negotiations that followed surmounted an increasingly tense period of our relationship, afterward called The Winter War, a title that sounds a lot more poetic than it was. We argued about my involvement in Russia's affairs: he, revoking his acknowledgement of my Independence and insisting I cede land to him; me, angrily and ardently reminding him that I was, in fact, a free agent to do as I pleased, and no, he could not take my territories for himself.

"It was _your_ government that granted me Independence," I reminded him, my hands fisted in my lap, my fingernails biting into my palms.

"It was the Bolsheviks," Russia was quick to correct. "They no longer have power. The agreement you signed with them is null."

"No!" I shouted, losing my temper. I'm usually rather contained, but Russia rips the anger out of me like a volcanic eruption. "It doesn't work that way! _You_ acknowledged the agreement! You can't just revoke it!"

"I can," he insisted, standing. I struggled not to stand in self-defense, but I could feel my heart hammering in panic as he circled the table and closed the distance between us. "I was not myself. I was confused."

 _Confused_ , he said delicately, like we all don't know that he went temporarily insane, like his mind and bodies weren't violently torn apart during the revolution.

"Finland," he said, kneeling down. He lifted a callused hand to my face, cupping my cheek. It was gentle, so strong but so gentle. His violet eyes revealed the pain and sadness of his humanity, and solemnly he said: "I want you back."

For a moment I endured—indulge in—the tenderness of his touch, surprised by it; a small, wicked part of me longing for it. Then I jerked back.

"No," I said finitely. "I will never be yours or anyone else's ever again."

I stood abruptly and walked out. Negotiations over.

Russia resented me for denying (rejecting) him. He didn't say it in words, but in actions. On 26 November 1939, he shelled his own village of Mainila—Russia has never been shy about sacrificing his own people and property to serve his purpose; he _razed_ Moscow during the Napoleonic Wars—and blamed me. I denied it, of course, because _I didn't fucking do it_! but it gave Russia a diplomatic reason to withdraw from the shaky non-aggression pact that he and I had had. I expected an attack to follow, so I wasn't surprised when he forced his way into my house four days later and tried to abduct me. The gentle tenderness was gone from him then, and he swung at me with a metal pipe, which had become his bludgeoning weapon of choice. I replied with rifle-fire, ducking and dodging his brutish attacks with a slyness I didn't know I possessed. He shelled Helsinki and reaped havoc along our shared boarder, trying to push me back; trying to pull me forward into his clutches. But, ironically, the only thing he achieved was unifying my divided people against him, something that I had been unable to do for decades.

(Someday, when I stop resenting him, I may even thank him for that. It's truly amazing what disagreements are forgotten by the introduction of a common enemy. Story of my life, literally.)

I struggled and held out long enough for the League of Nations—England and France, mostly—to take notice.

"Better late than never," I muttered as they wagged their reprimanding fingers at Russia, while expelling him from their exclusive club (like he cared).

"Don't provoke him, Finland," said England flippantly before they left, as if Russia's attack was _my_ fault; as if I had intentionally poked the great, unstable Soviet bear.

I smiled tight-lipped at their leave—I can't afford to make enemies of England and France—and then stabbed both of my middle fingers at their backs in anger.

But Russia didn't just walk away. He waited until the coast was clear and then grabbed me, dragged me back to Moscow, and forced me to accept the peace on _his_ terms. Harsh terms. I could do nothing to refuse him if I wanted release. He held me prisoner until I agreed. In exchange for acknowledging my autonomy, he annexed several of my territories. He demanded equipment and vehicles, the use of my pulp mills, and hydroelectric facilities (of which I'm quite proud), and confiscated all of my railways to transport his troops into Norway.

I trembled as he forced my hand to sign the _peace_ contract; tears rolled down my face.

I limped back to Helsinki in shame.

I still have my freedom, but just, and at a hefty price.

And now—barely a year later—we're doing it again, because my nightmare ex-overlord is still the greatest evil to me in the world.

I'm doing it, I'm surviving. But I'm scared. And all alone.

Where is Sweden?

I desperately want to talk to Sweden about all of this. I want to fall into his arms with a soft blanket and a hot beverage, and rest my head on his shoulder with his limbs wrapped around me, and I want to vent and outpour all of my frustrations and fears. I want what we always had on cold, dark winter days, just the two of us hidden from the tumultuous outside world. I don't _want_ to care about the outside any more than he does, but I do. I really fucking do. And he's the only one who understands; the one who promised to be my friend, my partner; the one who wanted to protect me, who told me he loved me. But he isn't here. I haven't seen him for a couple of years, because his attention has been on the Germans, wary and defensive. Everyone's focus is on the Germans _again_. They certainly know how to make a lasting impression, unlike me apparently.

In Sweden's stead I cuddle with Åland, our son, the closest piece of Sweden I have. Because I love Sweden, and I miss him and hate him for not being here when I need him, even though it was I who refused his protection. I'm feeling bitter and lonely and frustrated, but I try to hide it. I sing to Åland and tell him folktales and rock him in my arms, but he knows that something is wrong. The kisses and sweets are not enough to hide his fear, nor mine. He's scared because _I'm_ scared and I hate myself for showing it. Norway wouldn't show it, I think. Norway's face would be the serene portrait it always is—a fucking Madonna—and his children would see it and be calmed by it, trusting in him to take care of them. I hope Åland knows that I, too, would do anything, _will_ do everything I can to protect him from Russia's greedy clutches and Prussia's radical leer. They both want my baby to be a military instillation, but I won't let them take him.

God, please, don't let them take him from me.

I hug Åland close and wish that Sweden will answer my calls and come, but he doesn't. He's neutral, and I'm not. I'm—what? I don't know. But I'm not one of the Allies; no one ever asked me to be.

 _The Allies_ , I think, bitter and spiteful. What Allies? Where are they? I see no one but myself and the closing threat of Soviet Russia.

What good are allies when you're all alone?

* * *

 **SWEDEN**

 **STOCKHOLM**

I'm not getting involved.

For centuries I've fought foreign wars, but not this time. I'm tired of fighting my friends and neighbours. I'm tired of risking the safety of my nation—the people I love and cherish—for someone else's gain. I don't want to choose sides and hurt my family ever again. I refuse.

But Nazi Germany is not making it easy.

Norway and Finland and Russia are not making it easy, because I can see them all fighting and suffering and hating. I can feel them pressing in on me and feel the pull of my natural instincts to protect those I love. I want to help Finland, but I can't support him _and_ maintain my neutrality in this worldwide conflict. The moment I choose a side is the moment I sacrifice the only guarantee I have for a deadly gamble. I want to aid Norway too, but instead I've made an enemy of him, it seems, because his desperation outweighs my compassion. I want to annex Åland from Finland—just temporarily—to keep him safe from Russia and Prussia, seeing him not unlike the war orphans being relocated all across Europe. But I have so many fostered war orphans of my own to consider already, frightened human children so much less durable than my Åland; children who need me to stay neutral in order to protect them.

"I need you to do something for me," Denmark had said.

I'll never forget the shocking look on his face, the fear and sorrow in his eyes. I have never seen Denmark look so completely, utterly helpless.

"I'll protect them, I promise," I said, accepting the responsibility of his _undesirables_ , his nation's children; promising to do for them what he couldn't. He trusted me— _trusts_ me—to take care of them all. I can't let him down.

I didn't like the day Denmark surrendered himself to Nazi Germany. I had been so long without my Danish brother, I didn't want to lose him again, especially not like that. But I understand, now, why he did it. I disagreed with his politics at first. _How can you turn your back on Norway_? I thought, enraged at his complete cowardice. Denmark proclaimed to love Norway, but he left him, abandoned him to the threat of conquest like he had never done before. Where is the warrior who fought me for Norway? Who bled for Norway? _How can you betray him_? I thought. But I understand it, now. Because I can see my precious Finland from my boarders, alone and frightened and shielding our son from an invasion, and yet I do nothing. I stand and stare at him, crying inside, bleeding inside, but I don't move. I don't speak.

I choose myself over Finland.

We all choose ourselves in the end.

"Sweden," says Germany, his Wehrmacht at his back. "I need the use of your railways to transport my 163rd from Norway to Finland. Russia is using Finland's land to move his troops to Norway, so I must use Norway to attack Russia through Finland. It's a long haul and I have howitzers, tanks, and anti-aircraft equipment that I need to move quickly."

I nod, stiff and silent. I buy my neutral status with silence, day after day after day.

"I also need the use of your airfields."

Another wordless nod as I sign the contract he proffers.

He pockets it curtly and begins to leave, his movements stiff and jerky. It's like watching an automaton's un-oiled gears put to work. "Oh." He stops and turns back. He takes an envelope out of his left breast-pocket and hands it to me. I don't need to open it to know what's inside, or how many mouths it will feed. "The Third Reich appreciates your business for the iron ore you supplied."

I clutch the payment in my hands, my knuckles going white. I think of Norway, and how desperately he had tried to destroy my mines to prevent this very exchange. I remember the feel of his hatred, burning into me from eyes that should be kind and witty and sparkle with sly playfulness; a father's eyes; my former-partner's eyes, my brother's eyes, but all I saw in them was betrayal. I remember the feel of his body, the deception. The mystique of Norway has always made him look stronger on the outside than he is on the inside, but the truth of him is fragility; the worrying kind that stirs my want to protect him. Instead, I clasped my hand around the reed of his neck and hurled him back, away, out of my country, and left him for the dogs of the Third Reich.

" _Sieg Heil!_ " Germany salutes in farewell.

I stay silent, hating myself for wanting to survive. But it's a short-lived depression.

"Sweden," says England, The Royal Navy at his back. "Reports?" he demands. His green eyes are darting and unfocused, trying to see too many things at once; trying to juggle the responsibilities of himself, his family, his allies; trying to plot and plan and strike and search and sacrifice, stretching himself much too thinly across the globe (again). His hands grasp at phantom tools, and his head rings with Germany's Luftwaffe. His impatience and nervous energy make him look like a jack-rabbit sneaking into a predator's den.

With one hand, I tuck Germany's reichsmarks into my left coat-pocket; with the other, I extricate a dossier of military intelligence from my right. I hand the latter to England, who scans it quickly.

"How are the refugees faring?" he asks tensely, phrasing it in a way that makes him appear concerned, but I know what he's really asking.

"The training is proceeding as planned," I report. "I have a promising group of Norwegian and Danish rebels nearly ready to be sent abroad. I'll send word to MI5 when they're in place."

"Good, good," England smiles, distracted. It's not a nice smile. It's a smile that hides a storm of steel.

I shake his hand—bone-thin, but not weak; not yet—and he looks up at me, really seeing me for the first time in a long time.

Briefly, his green eyes soften and seem to focus on the present. He looks younger than he has in centuries.

"Good luck, Sweden," he says.

I nod, Germany's reichsmarks heavy in my pocket.

* * *

 **FINLAND**

 **HELSINKI**

Finland," says Germany.

It's a true testimony of my hatred for Russia that Germany does not scare me, now. It's certainly not bravery that stays my rifle from shooting, or my feet from running. It's simply that I've seen much worse than Germany's stiff, but polite approach. He's intimidating, yes, but something in his face assures me that he's not here to threaten me. He looks like a politician today, dressed neatly and finely like his ambassadors of old. Prussia had come to fight with me, wanting to claim me, like Russia; wanting to disassemble me for parts. But Germany's visit appears nonthreatening.

He offers me his hand, which, tentatively, I take. His hand envelopes mine. He could easily imprison me with his brutal, physical strength, but he doesn't. He shakes my hand like a gentleman and lets go.

Guardedly, I ask: "What do you want?"

"What do _you_ want, Finland?" he asks instead, his blue eyes steely and fatigued, but earnest. There's greed in him, but there's greed and ulterior motives in all of us, and Germany's don't seem to concern me. Or rather, I'm not his priority. Russia is. And Norway. His goal is to conquer (unite?) the north beneath the Nazi flag. I know it, because he and Prussia have never been shy about their idealist intentions. Hurting my Nordic family is not their prerogative; they would much rather we joined them than destroy us. I can see that fact in the—dare I say, _gentle_ —way Germany looks at me, a sympathetic crease in his pale forehead.

" _Russia_ has bullied you for far too long," he says, spitting out Russia's name like a foul taste. "He thinks you are his inferior, Finland. That Slavic monster would break you and enslave you again."

"I... also have... Slavic blood," I tell him _very_ carefully, fearing his prejudice. But Germany merely smiles at me.

"I will fix that," he replies, as if providing me a service; as if my Slavic population—my blood, my bones, my _people_ —are a festering infection he can and will cut out. His smile doesn't falter. "You're very lovely, Finland," he says in a complimentary tone, his eyes roving over my white face, my pale eyes, my blonde hair. "You don't belong beneath Russia's yoke. You belong with me and my family—with your _Nordic_ family," he emphasizes, hoping to entice me. "It's true you have very little Germanic blood,"—a fault, in his opinion—"but in time that will change. Your country is one of the most beautiful in the world," he continues layering on the praise. "I would be much obliged if you would let me use your geographic-body to secure our future. A future without Russia in it."

I was going to refuse, but I stop. I reconsider. I look thoughtfully up at Germany, who does not wish to hurt me. Who else can promise me that?

I give his proposal the consideration it deserves, because, logically, it makes sense. Why shouldn't I ally with Nazi Germany? No one else appears to want me, and the Germans are so, so powerful. I think their victory _must_ be inevitable. What fool would deliberately choose the losing side in a conflict of such great magnitude? A conflict that will decide the future of us all? _The captain goes down with his ship_ is such an Empiric sentiment; Vikings are much more practical. Did we stay firmly, proudly planted upon our sinking longships? Fuck no! We got the hell off and stole a new boat! I've been alive for far too long not to know a sinking ship when I see one, and the Allies are sinking fast.

Then there's Russia's threat to consider. Russia's always been constant, and his shadow looms over me still. I'll never be rid of him unless he's defeated for good. I used to think that no one would ever be powerful enough to change him, or stand against him. So many have tried and failed, and my recent calls for help to Sweden and England have fallen upon deaf ears. Perhaps they fear Russia as much as I do, but Germany does not fear him. And if anyone has a chance at taming, cowing, crippling— _destroying_ —Soviet Russia, it's him. If anyone can beat my oppressor back for good, it's Nazi Germany.

"What do _you_ want?" Germany repeats; his tone gentle, his eyes urgent.

I clench my jaw, clutch my rifle.

I want my lost territories back. I want security for my people. I want stability. I want an end to civil warfare. I want revenge, and to see Russia suffer as he's made me suffer for centuries. I want a powerful ally who can _promise_ my Independence.

"Military aid," I say, burning now with a cold, vengeful anger; and shaking in fear. Because I'm still so afraid.

I want not to be afraid anymore.

"I want you to make sure that Russia can never hurt me again."

Germany's smile is proud and predatory as he takes my hand, shaking firmly in agreement. "Done," he says.

* * *

 **NORWAY**

 **NARVIK**

A Nazi destroyer catches fire and sinks into the littered Ofotfjord. It's night, but the water is alight as Germany orders his forces into retreat.

" _Don't let them escape_!" England bellows. " _I want every last Jerry ship lying at the bottom of the fjord_!"

He commands a host of British and French troops, who push their advantage from the foot of the mountains. Guns fire, shaking the silence, lighting the sky. I watch them as they obey their patron's order, but I'm distracted. This may feel like a victory, but the rest of my country has been evacuated of Allied troops, because, on land, the Germans are unstoppable. An ambush of panzers forced us to retreat into the north, to Narvik, where we have a slim advantage. Here, I've dug in my heels. Here, I'll make a last stand. I'll continue to refuse the Germans with everything I have left in me. Prussia and Germany will have to kill me, because I'd rather die than bow to them, or anyone. I don't have the strength that England does. I never have, if I'm being honest. My bones are sturdy and my people are brave, but Dan was always the militant one; the one who dictated our movements; the one who decided if and when we fought. I had other worries in my house and children—keeping us alive in the north—and left my people to be nothing but Dan's tax cache and cannon-fodder for far too long. If it was just I fighting the Germans, I don't think I could defeat them, not even at sea. It's simple mathematics: I have fewer troops, fewer military resources, and fewer years of preparation. My country is not a military state, like Germany's is, which is why I'm glad to have England fighting with me—fighting _for_ me. He's half the empire he once was, but he's still a strong contender and his military expertise is unparalleled. He's fought many more battles than I.

Who could've known that the skinny, scared little islander I used to bully would someday become one of the most powerful forces in all the world?

Who would've ever thought I'd beg him for help?

I know that it's not me he cares about. I know it's my natural resources and geographic location he's after—you don't fuck someone else's partner (ex-partner) if you're friends—but I'm glad nonetheless, because I'm using him, too.

And it's working. Germany's forces execute a daring maneuver to escape the British and flee the Ofotfjord. England is upset—" _Go after him_ , _he's getting away_!"—but his tantrum is dwarfed by the relief I feel. With Germany gone, I can breathe.

"He'll be back," England warns. It's hard and sugarless. It's England's no-nonsense facade. He's all business as he surveys the watery battlefield. If he was wearing red, I'd think it was still the eighteenth century, but he's not. He's finally retired that iconic red coat—the coat that used to fill the whole world with fear and pride and disdain—and, instead, he's wearing green. _Army green_ is the colour of modern warfare.

"If the Germans capture you," he continues, "they'll have direct access to your _and_ Sweden's resources."

He says this like I don't know it, like I'm inferior, like he and I didn't already try—and fail—to destroy all of Sweden's Gällivare mines to prevent the Germans taking control.

"And," he begins, then pauses. His lips are pressed tight. "They'll have unchallenged access to the Atlantic."

The Atlantic Ocean, which surrounds England's home and leads to his children. If the Germans control the Atlantic, then the safe-haven of North America will be threatened.

"I won't surrender," I tell him firmly. That ocean leads to my children, too.

England and I share a look, then a nod. It's coolly companionable.

"I'll help you, Norway," he says, falsely selfless. If I get captured, it puts he and his whole family in jeopardy.

"No matter what happens, I'll defend you. I won't let them—"

Abruptly, he goes silent. His mouth is still open, but no words come out. He's choked. His face looks horror-struck, his green eyes filling with the kind of instinctive fear reserved for tragedy and heartbreak.

I'm so taken aback that I reach for him. "England—?" I ask nervously. For a moment I think that something must have happened to his British forces elsewhere, but I'm wrong.

England isn't afraid for himself. It's France.

The Nazis have taken France.

" _England_ ," I say, grabbing his wrist. He's pulling at me, but I yank him back. "You—you promised," I blame him. "You said—"

"Let go," he says in a small voice. His heels dig into the earth; his fleet retreats from my waters. "I-I-I—I have to go."

Tears flood his green eyes and my violets.

" _You promised_!" I whisper harshly, desperately. I can't let him leave. I can't do this alone. If he leaves, they'll take me. He's all I have to defend myself.

But England's not even looking at me; he's looking at France. His priority. It's always France.

"I'm sorry, Norway."

England slips through my grasping hands and sprints, taking his twenty-five thousand troops with him along with my only chance of survival.

It's only been ten days since the victory at Narvik. My one last hope.

* * *

I'm staring into the empty, jewel-blue waters of the fjord when he comes.

His hands are cold and skeletal. His fingers feel like steel on my skin. He touches me between my shoulder-blades and gently strokes my cheek with his bony knuckles, but I don't move.

He's half-a-head taller than me. He leans down, his breath hot on my face.

A tear rolls down my cheek.

"Don't cry, sweetheart," Prussia growls. "I'm going to take good care of you."

* * *

 **DENMARK**

 **BERLIN**

 _Deutschland_ , _Deutschland über alles_ , _über alles in der Welt_!" Prussia sings loudly and off-key.

I don't join in. Instead, I stand stiffly in his huge office, decorated with priceless art from all over Europe. Art that he's called contraband as an excuse to steal it from the rightful owners. France screamed in anger when the Nazis pillaged The Louvre (though, I heard a rumour that most pieces were taken underground when the bombing began). I avert my gaze from walls and pedestals, but everywhere I look I see luxury. There's _cordon bleu_ leftovers plated on bone-china—a cruel tease to everyone who's starving—and aged liquor, which Prussia pours into a crystal tumbler. He offers me a glass, but I shake my head. I've been stone-cold sober since war was declared. A first, for me.

That's when Prussia stops. "Denmark," he says, removing the needle from the gramophone. He stares at me as he takes a long, slow drink from his glass, then sets it down. He takes his time readjusting his tie, straightening the Iron Cross at his throat and the armband encircling his bicep. He makes me wait, deliberately making me sweat as he prowls to his desk and slides onto it, casually crossing his arms. His uniform is so crisp it barely creases. It's deep blue and impeccable, his boots polished to shine, his ashen hair combed respectably back off his bone-white face. His eyes are confident. If he didn't look so goddamn insane, he'd cut an unconventionally handsome figure.

"Denmark, you're unhappy," he says.

Unhappy—?

Unhappy because he and Germany have invaded my homeland and are occupying it? Because they've put me on house-arrest while they reap havoc across the map? Because they're hurting all the people I love? Because I don't want to sing: _Germany_ , _above all else in the world_?

Unhappy is a fucking understatement. But I don't say that to Prussia. There's no use talking logic to insanity.

Instead, I say: "I've done everything you've asked of me."

"Yes," Prussia says in a condescending tone, "but you haven't done it with a smile. I'm disappointed in you, Denmark."

"Is that why you asked me here, to lecture me?"

Instead of replying, Prussia reaches into a desk drawer and produces a shredded Danish flag. He casts it on the floor in front of me, like it's nothing. His smile withdraws.

I swallow. I need to be careful, because my next words could cost my rebels their lives. "I've done what you asked," I repeat, trying to appeal to his sense of patriotism, "but I won't fly your flag. It's not who I am."

"Oh?" Prussia cocks a disapproving eyebrow at me. "And here I thought you liked red." He pushes himself up and stands as straight as a sniper-rifle. "I think you keep forgetting that you and I are not enemies, Denmark. I think you've misinterpreted my... benevolence, my... patience," he says through a tight-lipped smile. "I'm not _trying_ to hurt you, cousin."

"You've put me under a military government of _your_ ruling," I counter. "You've imposed curfews, rations—"

"Wartime procedures," he interrupts curtly. "Or haven't you noticed that the world is at war? I've imposed no limitations upon your people that I haven't imposed on my own. It's to everyone's benefit and safety, I assure you."

I shake my head. "Your own people, Prussia. _Your_ people. You're exterminating your own people!"

Prussia's blood-red eyes glare at me. " _Those_ are not my people," he says sternly.

"They were once," I remind him, searching his face; his reaction. Trying— _trying_ —to find some evidence that the Prussia I know is still in there somewhere, trapped behind this murderer's face. "Have you forgotten? You were a knight, Prussia. You existed to _protect_ people, to defend the weak and help those who needed help. You were born to guard against the darkness, not to be the cause of it! You used to have honour—"

"And you used to have respect," he sneers. "Have _you_ forgotten how powerful you once were, Denmark?"

"That wasn't respect," I admit, "it was fear. The world feared me, it didn't respect me."

"It was effective," he says. He studies me for a minute, then sighs. "I used to admire you, did you know that? You had strength I wanted. I looked to you as a model back then. But now—?" He shakes his head. "What happened to you, Denmark? What happened to the man who taught me how to fight?"

I look at my younger cousin, possessed by greed and anger and fear, and I feel completely helpless. I shrug, and tell him the truth: "He grew-up."

Prussia rolls his eyes and turns away from me, but I'm not done. He's in there somewhere, I know he is. He _has_ to be.

"Prussia." I grab his shoulder. "The days of kings and castles and battlefield glory is over, why can't you see that? The world has evolved. The things you want, the things you're clinging to aren't needed anymore."

"You mean _I'm_ not needed anymore." He shakes me off.

"I didn't say that." _It's true_ , _as much as it hurts me. But I didn't say it._ "You can change," I say gently to him. "I know it's frightening, but if you let yourself evolve _with_ the world instead of fighting against it, you'll be happier. If you surrender this war, you'll—"

"Be humiliated _again_!" he snaps. He turns on me suddenly, eyes blazing. "Take your fucking _world peace_ , _happiness_ _bullshit_ and shove it up your ass, Denmark! I don't need it! I have worked too damn hard to get to where I am, I'm not giving up now! Why the fuck would I? Germany and I control the most powerful nation in all of Europe!"

"But you're not!" I say. "Why can't you see that? Prussia—" I wait until he looks at me, "—you're ill. _Very_ ill. And everyone can see it except you. Something has taken root inside of you and is destroying you from the inside-out. Look at yourself!" I demand, pointing to the wall-mirror. "Take a good, hard look! You're not strong! Your people are weak—they're divided, they're hurting just like the rest of Europe! They're fucking afraid of you! How can you think any of that is okay?"

"Because it won't last forever," he says, determined. For a fleeting moment I see the anguish in his red eyes, but I blink and it's gone. His eyes fill with maniacal hope and the desperate smile that curls his lips freaks me right the fuck out. "The German people will endure this cleanse and be stronger for it. Why can't _you_ understand that I'm doing this—I'm fighting—to build a better future? You think I've forgotten who I am, but I haven't. I'm still me, cousin." He clutches his heart. "I'm just trying to protect everyone... everyone who _deserves_ it. Why can't _you_ see that I'm building a world that's safe and prosperous and unified? A future founded on strength. A future that me and my family will rule. That includes you, Denmark."

He reaches out and places his hands on my shoulders. His smile looks so genuine that tears flood my eyes.

 _I'm losing him. I can't lose him._

"Please," I say quietly, looking into those hopeful eyes, "stop this."

"Denmark—"

" _Please_!" I knock away his hands and grab his shoulders. I shake him hard, and his whole body jerks. He's so much lighter than he should be; lighter than he looks. He may look big and strong, but his body feels like a corpse. It's proof that he's wasting away. " _Please_!" I yell, not at Prussia but to whatever demon has possessed him. " _Stop it_!"

Prussia strikes me and shoves me away. He's a predator again. "I won't stop," he growls. "Not until Germany is secured as the leader he's meant to be. I won't stop until every threat and scourge on this earth has been eliminated, and I will destroy anyone who stands in my way. Do not mistake my affection for you for weakness, cousin. _I am not weak._ "

"No," I say in defeat. "Just blind. Just deaf.

"It's your voice, Prussia, but those are not your words." _And if this madness continues_ , _they'll never be your words again._

I thought I could save him, shake some sense into him, but I can't. All I can hope for now is an Allied victory, because Prussia can't be saved.

 _I'm sorry_ , _cousin. I'm so_ , _so_ _sorry_.

Prussia heaves a deep, dramatic sigh and straightens his uniform.

"I really wished it hadn't come to this, Denmark," he says, resuming a businesslike tone. "I really didn't want to hurt you or your family, so—" he presses a call-button on his desk, "—don't blame me for this."

My blood freezes in my veins and I stare in horrified disbelief as two Gestapo officers escort Norge inside.

" _No_..." I whisper, too afraid to move. " _Prussia_ , _please... no_..."

Prussia looks sharply at me, and says: "I gave you a choice, Denmark. I gave you countless chances to change your tune, but you insist on fighting me. I didn't want to hurt either of you— _believe me_ ," he says, letting his gaze rake Norge from head-to-toe.

He struts over and closes the distance between himself and Norge, looking down his nose at his captive with relish. " _God_ , Norway, you really are incredibly beautiful. Such pretty white skin," he approves, dragging a finger down Norge's cheek, "and blonde hair, and... purple eyes." He lingers, then swallows. He smiles. "You're exactly what I want for my future, Norway. Denmark, too. It's such a shame you've chosen death."

I lunge at my cousin, but the Gestapo intercept me. They hold me back. I throw my weight forward, trying to free my hands so they can strangle Prussia, but he only smirks, his knuckles still pressed teasingly to Norge's face. It makes me shiver in revulsion. And fear, because I don't know what he might do.

"Prussia!" I yell, angry and desperate. "Please, you can't—"

The next thing I know, I'm on my back on the floor, because he's punched me in the face so hard my teeth rattle. He stands over me, livid, and snarls:

" _Don't tell me what I can do_!

"You are _nothing_ compared to me, Denmark! You lost your Empire, but I won't lose mine! _No one_ gives me orders!"

" _Germania would be ashamed of you_!"

And that's the point-of-no-return, because I've said it. I've voiced Prussia's greatest fear.

"SHUT UP!" he roars.

He grabs the front of my shirt in one fist and starts hammering me with the other. I feel the blood pouring from my nose and mouth until my whole face goes numb. Prussia is gasping and growling like a baited dog as his fists swing up and slam down. Up, down. Up, down. Up—

He seethes in outrage as he's yanked clumsily off of me, then winds back and strikes Norge with explosive force. Norge lands a few feet away and goes still for a moment. Then he pushes himself to his knees, cupping his face, his violet eyes alive with cold determination. But that's as far as he gets. Prussia grabs a fistful of Norge's blonde hair and drags him forward, then tosses him against me so that we're huddled together on the floor at Prussia's feet.

"Whatever happens to Norway now is _your_ fault, Denmark. Not mine," he spits. "I gave you a chance. I gave both of you a fucking chance, so it's _not my fault_!

"I am not a defeated nation, I am Prussia!" he says, more to himself than to us, I think. "And I am _not_ weak! I will rule this new world, so help me God! I will not sink into obscurity! I will never cease to exist! One-hundred years from now, I will still be sitting on the throne of Europe—of the whole fucking world! I am _not_ Germania!" he screams, and—holy fuck, are those _tears_ I see in his manic eyes? "I am not my father! I am Prussia, and no one will ever forget my name!"

I stare at him in bewilderment, then slowly shake my head.

"Maybe not," I admit, holding Norge against me. "But you'll be remembered as the villain, Prussia. Not as the hero."

* * *

 **SWEDEN**

Finland— _why_?"

"Don't look at me like that," he says, his face turned away from me, a study in turmoil. It's a very human face, which used to suit him, but now it pains me to see. There's human fragility in his voice when he says: "What else was I supposed to do?"

I stare at him in disbelief. "You could've refused Germany," I say, unable to hide my judgement. "You didn't have to become his co-belligerent. You could've stayed out of it—"

" _No_ ," he snaps aggressively, "I couldn't have, because I have never had the benefit of neutrality like you do. I have never been strong enough, Sweden."

 _Sweden_. When was the last time he spoke my name like that, with indifference?

"If I don't have strong allies, then I have nothing. If I don't have Nazi Germany, then I have _no one_ ," he says hurtfully.

"But Fin," I say cautiously, "he's using you."

"Everyone _uses_ me," he counters darkly. "What difference does it make if it's Germany or someone else? As long as it's not Russia..." He breaks off, his voice heavy with raw, choked emotion. "I can't go back to Russia. I _won't_."

His face is pale and thin—hungry—but his cheeks are flushed with fever. His round eyes are tired, red-ringed and bloodshot (from crying, I think, and feel awful). His small, soft frame shakes as sobs reverberate throughout his starving, struggling nation.

I want to hold him. I try to go to him, but he shrugs me off.

"You've always wanted me to be Swedish," he says, salty tears falling from his eyelashes. "Russia wants me to be Russian, but I'm not. I'm not either of those things, and I'm—I'm—" He shudders. " _I don't even know what I am_!" he cries, his face contorting in anguish. "No one has ever given me the chance to find out, to just be _me_. And if Russia steals me back, I-I-I—I won't even be me anymore. He'll kill me. He'll finally, truly assimilate me and the Finland I am now will cease to exist. So, I won't go back to him," he repeats fervently, covering his face with his hands; scrubbing at the skin in exhausted frustration. His voice is muffled, but determined. " _I would rather_ _die_."

"Don't say that—" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"You have no idea what he did to me!" he snaps sharply. "What he made me do! You've never asked, because you never _wanted_ to know! I never wanted to tell you! But I'll tell you this, now: I would rather be used over-and-over by Nazi Germany than become Russia's plaything again."

I open my mouth, then close it. I don't know what to say, because he's right. I've never wanted to know the details of his imprisonment. I've never asked, because I'd always thought it too painful a topic for him. But maybe he's right, and I've only been protecting myself from the horrible knowledge. Have I always only protected myself? Maybe that's why he pushed me away all those years ago; maybe that's what led him to Russia. Was it my fault? _Is_ it my fault now? I clench and unclench my fists, feeling anxious as I look upon distraught little Finland—once, my Finland. Once, my one and only love, the person whom I would do anything for. Or, so I'd always thought.

I take a step toward him—I _want_ to go to him; I _want_ to hold him—but, again, he retreats, distancing himself from me. He looks at me coldly, like I've betrayed him.

I try a different tactic. I have to make him trust me—and the Allies—again, even if it poisons our relationship. It's for his own good.

"I think you've made a mistake, Fin," I say haltingly, trying to be diplomatic. "Nazi Germany will not be your salvation."

Finland's pale eyes are big and wet and burning. "Well, thank-you for that jewel of wisdom," he seethes, his voice a quiet hiss. "It's only a shame I didn't have it five years ago. It's a shame you didn't answer when I called to you.

"Where were you then, Sweden? Where were you during The Winter War? Where were you when Russia attacked me? When Prussia tried to fucking dissect me? When he tried to take Åland— _our_ Åland?

" _Where were you_?" he shouts in accusation.

 _Oh_ , _Finland_ , I think, feeling my heartstrings pull for him. He's been tormented, confused, left to suffer alone for so long, and I fear my fickle apology is too little too late. Logic means less to him than sentiment right now. He just wanted to know that I cared—that _someone_ cared—but I failed him. I see the fight in him now, like a kicked, cornered dog. I could've, _should've_ , done more for him when I could, because now I can't.

I just can't.

"You promised me, Ruotsi," he says after a long, pregnant pause. "You promised you'd stand beside me. You said I wouldn't be alone. You said you loved me. Was it all a lie?"

No, it wasn't a lie. It's the unpredictability of war. It's the promise I made to Denmark. It's my responsibility to protect my country, my people. I _have_ to maintain my neutrality!

But none of that is what Finland wants—or needs—to hear.

"Of course not," I tell him honestly. My voice sounds frail, even to me. "I _do_ love you, Finland. Almost more than anything in the world. I just..."

He looks at me, and it breaks my heart.

I tell him the truth I never thought I'd ever have to reveal to anyone, least of all him:

"I love myself more."

We all choose ourselves in the end.

* * *

 **DENMARK**

 **OCCUPIED NORWAY**

I stare into the cell, empty except for Norge—the one I love—lying motionless on the floor. I thought I had cried all of my tears out over the past century, but as I look in at him I can feel myself getting salty, melting into a formless shape without substance, like water. My eyes burn; my lips pinch together. I wring a bar of the long, steel barricade with my fist, imagining it's Prussia's neck. I'm angry, I'm sad. I'm a puddle of fucking helpless nothing as my eyes drink in the sight of Norge's beaten, broken body. It rekindles my ebbing desire to rebel. It makes me want to rage and fight and remind the world who— _what_ —I am. The warrior in me roars, but the modern-man I've become is soft at his core and he wants to scoop Norge into his arms, hold him, and cry. I don't know which of these men I am anymore. I used to be so sure of myself, but now I'm not sure of anything. Now, I have no power or prestige or influence. My Nordic family are getting further out-of-reach, and my German family have lost their fucking minds. I don't know where I belong anymore. I don't know if I belong anywhere.

I'm Denmark, I think. I hope. But not even I know what that means, now.

A sound stirs me, a presence descending the warped stone steps. How many mortals have wasted away in the prison-cell that Norge now occupies? How many hopes and dreams died down here? How much raw potential was lost every time someone was brave enough to say _no_?

" _No_ ," Norge had said to me, when Prussia left us alone. I fell to my knees and fucking begged him to repeal his support for the Allies. I took his hands and squeezed them, and kissed them, and asked him to swallow his pride, his morals, his everything, and join Prussia and Germany, like I had done. It was shameful and cowardly, but at least I'll survive, I told him. And isn't that what's important? No matter what, _we_ _must survive_. I gathered his bruised body into my arms and whispered my deepest fear: that the Nazis would destroy him; that his Norway, the Norway he had worked so hard to create, would disappear. "Please, Norge," I said. "I can't watch you get hurt. Do this for me, please. You're in danger. Prussia will kill you if you don't surrender—or worse, he'll use you. I can't watch that. I _can't_." Norge smiled wanly at me, and cupped my cheek, and for a brief moment I thought I had won his loyalty, but the word that left his lips, filling the space between us, was _no_.

A hand touches my elbow. It's light, a mere brush, but I flinch.

"I'm sorry, Denmark... really, I am," says Germany quietly.

I want to lunge at him with a blood-curdling scream—sorry? he's fucking _sorry_?—but I don't.

Germany looks like a walking corpse, a living—but barely—contradiction of everything Prussia proclaims the German nation to be. His body is rigid, but bent, like scaffolding bowed beneath too much weight; his colour is ashen; and his scent—God! I recoil, because he smells like chlorine gas and crematorium smoke. His words don't betray his leader's laws, but his eyes, drooping and unblinking, say: _Help me_!

"We didn't want to hurt Norway," he says, earnest. "He was supposed to be an ally, but he refused. He left us no choice. You understand, don't you?

"We thought," he continues hesitantly when I don't speak, afraid that if I open my mouth I'll throw-up, "he would agree, if you were the one asking. Maybe if you ask him again—?"

His eyes go to Norway, sliding like the mechanical workings of a clockwork doll.

I squeeze the bars with both hands. "Norge won't surrender," I say, definitive. A small part of me is proud of him for being what I can't be, even though I wish he wasn't.

Germany is insistent, though. Desperate.

"But if he did," he urges me, "it would be for the best, for his own good. Isn't that what you want, Denmark? You've always made his decisions for him, always known what was best for him. He was foolish to leave you," he says, trying to appeal to my ego, to my sense of conquest. "If you can convince him to join us," _force him to join us_ , I hear in the loaded silence, "then I'll give him to you. I'll reinstate the Kingdom of Denmark and Norway. You can be married again." He smiles. It's sad. "Isn't that what you want? Isn't that what you've wanted for the last one-hundred-and-fifty years? I can make it happen.

"I'm not trying to be cruel," he says, a bit defensive, like he's trying to convince himself. "Prussia and I want a better, cleaner world. A better future. A future that includes you and Norway _together_. Isn't that what you want?" he repeats impatiently. "I just want you to be strong, Denmark. Cousin," he pleads. "Reclaiming Norway would make you strong again, wouldn't it?"

He reaches for me, but I block his cold, clammy hand and knock it aside.

"No," I tell him. "Remarrying Norge won't make me strong again, because it won't make him happy, and I..."

A sudden calmness settles upon me, within me. It fills me with clarity and the simple, honest knowledge I've been lacking since the sixteenth century. I understand now why it hurts so much to look at Norge. Why, in truth, it's hurt to look at him for a long, long time. And I understand why he's chosen _no_ over his own survival.

I look at Germany, and my words are the rejection that rekindles the rebellion inside of me. I don't care if I'm strong anymore.

"I want us to be happy."


End file.
